No More Heroes
by bamftastik
Summary: The Blight has not ended. Alistair departed during the Landsmeet and both Loghain and the Warden perished in the siege of Denerim. In its wake, the remaining companions undertake a search for a wandering drunk and the witch that could save them all.
1. Chapter 1

"You there. Bard. Give us a story."

The woman raised her head, glaring at the speaker across the crowded, makeshift tavern.

"Saw the lute when you came in. Hard to miss, that."

She sighed, nudging her packs further beneath the table as she swirled the wine in her glass. It was funny, she supposed; when last she had visited Haven, the people would barely meet a stranger's eye. But its population had swelled, the frigid passes of the deep mountains providing one of the last refuges in all of Denerim. There were half a dozen dialects in this cramped room, grown discordant and keening with the flow of cheap ale. Funny, too, that even at the end of the world, men would find a place to drink.

At first, many had come with hope in their hearts. Word had spread of the Urn, of course; tales always sprung up in the wake of Her adventures. But the halls of the temple had proved impassable, they said. Yet the people had remained, huddled against the cold. There was nowhere else to go.

"You might want to indulge them. These refugee types, they do love a happy ending."

With a start, Leliana's head jerked up. The man was tall, his smile easy as he pulled up a chair and plopped down opposite her. His hair was pulled into a tight, blonde ponytail, his face scrubbed free of the filth that marked most of the town's inhabitants. As he dandled an ankle on his knee, she caught a glimpse of pale calf but he adjusted his robes with a smirk.

"Uh, uh, uh. Buy me a drink first."

She turned her face away, but not from embarrassment. There was something to his features – the lazy and crooked grin – that reminded her forcibly of another. But he was gone now, disappeared to Maker knows where. "I—"

"Quiet type, huh? Ooh, wouldn't have thought that in a bard."

"If you would let me finish..." She did her best to glare, but a bitter chuckle escaped her. "I have nothing to offer them. There are no songs of comfort for times such as these. There are no more happy endings."

The stranger shrugged, raising his hand to signal for a drink. "You're the expert. But I don't suppose you could – you know – make something up? Maybe something about a dashing, hero cat and his adventures. People _like_ animal stories."

"_Cul d'Andraste!_" Leliana sank back in her chair with a growl. "Which one would you have me tell? The Folly of King Loghain? The Fall of Denerim? The Death of..." She could not finish the words.

"You've been to Denerim." Finally his voice grew hushed, eyes never leaving hers even as the harried serving girl set a second mug on the table. Once she was out of earshot, he leaned low across the table. "I didn't take you for a refugee."

Leliana blinked. "How did you—?"

"Too pretty, for one." He smiled over the rim of his mug. "But I assumed you were fresh from Orlais. Not Denerim."

"I could say the same of you."

"Aw, you think I'm pretty."

She snorted. "I merely meant that you are no refugee."

"Am I not? We're all here to hide from something." He winked.

They sat in silence for a time, broken only when Leliana took a long pull from her cup and set it empty on the wood between them.

"The way I hear it, not many escaped the city alive." He was watching her again, watching the slight sway as she sat forward in her chair. "Don't think of it as stories; think of it as news."

With a heavy sigh, Leliana acquiesced. "Denerim burns." She did not notice how quiet the room had become, the whispered shuffle of boots sliding closer as silence settled.

"The fire is black, all-consuming and inextinguishable. Never does it need stoking, making tinder of palace and hovel, crumbling stone as easily as wood. Crumbling flesh. Crumbling hope. But it was not always so."

"They gathered beneath an ancient banner, human and dwarf and elf marching as one. It was a Grey Warden that led them, a Grey Warden that breached the city walls. At her side marched the villain Loghain, pardoned and finding purpose anew beneath Her mercy."

There was a quiet hiss at that. Leliana, too, felt the words threatening to choke her, hiding her grimace as the girl came to refill her cup. There was more to the tale, but it did not matter now.

"Through market and Alienage they fought, making for the tall and terrible fort at the city's center. That place, too, she sought to redeem, choosing it as the location for their final stand. It was at its gates that Loghain fell, sacrificing himself so that the last Warden might live. Beset on all sides by darkspawn he was, but it was a stray arrow that took him down. The smallest thing to bring down the man who would have made himself king, a simple hurlock to fell the Hero of the River Dane."

Leliana pushed the mug aside, finding the rhythm now.

"And so the Warden and her companions pushed on. She had gathered them to her, outcasts and survivors, those who would atone and those who would prove themselves. But they had realized her intent now, the reason that it takes a Grey Warden to end a Blight. She meant to sacrifice herself, had confided her plan to a dear friend on the eve of battle. But the friend saw no fear in her eyes, saw only a hard and resigned certainty. And so... and so she held her tongue..."

"But the Warden had not told her lover. He too could read the new sternness in her, the unwavering focus. They argued at the feet of the archdemon itself, dodging flame and rubble as he pleaded with her. It was with great pain that she drew on him, turning her blades from the battle to press them to his throat... And, like Loghain, it took only the merest of blows. An errant swipe of the beast's tail and she was falling, landing at the feet of that tower, a small and broken thing... the world's only hope."  
There was no ending to the tale. She sat back, eyes on her glass as the listeners realized that it was over, shaking themselves as they shuffled away. Across from her, the stranger drummed his fingers on the table. "Wow. That was _really_ depressing."

She began to retort, but there was a hand on her shoulder. The man was elderly, with a kind and quiet smile. "Thank you. It's been too long since we've had news."

Leliana bowed her head. "You are welcome. I only wish that I had better news to bring."

"Nonsense." He chuckled. "But you seem tired, traveler. Do you have a place to stay?"

"No, I... I had not thought much about it."

"Haven is crowded these days, but I would like to offer you my barn. I don't normally allow it. Had a drunk sneak in there some weeks back, you see. Horrible stench. Mad too. Claimed he was one of your Grey Wardens... and a prince to boot!" He laughed.

It was a moment before she remembered to breathe. "...a prince?"

"Yeh. Had some stolen armor that was nice enough, but I've never seen a prince all skin and bones. Madded smile, too. 'Jus' like her,' he kept saying as I threw him out. 'Jus' like her.'"

Leliana pushed back from the table, her chair toppling crashing to the floor. "Where did he go?"

The old man shrugged. "Don't rightly know."

"But you saw which way he went, yes?"

"Back down the mountain. This is Haven, girl. One way in, one way out."

For the first time in weeks, Leliana found herself smiling. She took the man's hand hers, shaking it quickly and earnestly as she bent to scoop up her packs. "Thank you, _Monsieur_. Thank you more than you know."

Ignoring the stares of the onlookers, she made for the door, stopping only when she felt a hand on her arm. The stranger was looking down at her with a bemused expression, his own pack slung over his shoulder.

Leliana blinked. "What are you doing?"

"Coming with you, of course."

"Why? I do not even know your name."

The stranger inclined his head. "I am Anders, mage and wanted apostate. And I'm assuming from your sudden excitement, dear lady, that you are headed for trouble. Or at least something more exciting than this place. Either way, you could use my help."

"Apostate?" Leliana stifled a sudden chuckle as she smirked up at him. "Come then, my friend. We have a templar to find."


	2. Chapter 2

"Well, if it isn't the conquering hero."

Even in the twilight of camp, Master Ignacio did not relax, choosing to stand beside the fire instead of sit. He had turned to the trees well before Zevran slipped from their shadows, casting a wry smile upon the two mealy hares that the elf dropped at his feet.

"Hm. A bit skinny, do you not think?"

Across the cleaning, Cesar laughed, looking up from his crates. "Heh. Maybe the skinny is all he can kill, no? Like that skinny, little Warden. Not much meat to her either, you remember?"

Zevran stiffened, taking half a step toward the merchant, but the old Crow was watching him still. He held the man's eyes. "Shall I prepare them? Or do we throw away game now?"

The Master sniffed, showing him his back as he bent to scoop up the rabbits and carry them toward the fire. Zevran knew better than to ask. Ignacio had prepared all their meals since this strange journey had begun. Considering the company, he would have done the same. But the Master did not want him dead, not yet. And certainly by nothing so simple as poison.

He had turned to go, but the old man held up a hand. "Regale us again, if you will."

"There is nothing to tell. The Grey Warden is dead."

Cesar had turned from his inventory to watch with folded arms. "Fallen from a roof, no? Perhaps she simply lost her footing."

"Our Zevran does have a knack for covering his tracks, for making it appear an accident." Beside the fire, Ignacio smiled, never taking his eyes from his work. "There was another, was there not? A mage fallen from her carriage. Your work as well, I believe?"

"Yes."

Cesar snorted.

"Is it not your watch?" Zevran whirled before he could stop himself. The other man did not have much on him in height, but his shoulders were broad, thick with muscle and hair. As if sensing his glance, he flexed his arms.

But Ignacio's quiet chuckle silenced them both. "Cesar, go."

With a parting glare, the merchant acquiesced.

"I believe you - about the mage and Warden both - as I have said." The Master ran a blade across the rabbit's back, flaying the skin in one swift motion. "I look forward to hearing you present the tale to the other Masters."

Ah, so that was it. Zevran had expected as much. He had met the pair just beyond the walls of Denerim, bound again for Antiva City. Perhaps he had been only... distracted, recovering from his wounds, but he had fallen in beside them before he could realize his mistake. Ignacio had known of his purpose there, of course, would have heard of the abandoned contract. And so Zevran had done the only thing he could. He had told them the truth.

"Yet you waited until the final moments to kill your Warden." The Master raised his eyes. "Why, I wonder?"

Zevran forced a smile. "I have often been told that I have a flare for the dramatic."

"Hm. Yes, perhaps that is the case."

It was a dismissal, he knew, a quiet reminder that he was only of passing interest. With a last look for the crouching figure, Zevran turned for his bedroll.

He, too, showed the old man his back - though not out of pride, but of necessity. Neither knew of the book he carried, slipped now from his pack to rest between his knees. Again, guilt stirred. Guilt that he had taken this precious thing from Her, the woman that he... the woman that he had killed. He touched again the scar on his neck. It was healing well, the mark of the blade her final gift, his final mistake. Smoothing open the pages of the diary, he began to read.

_Despite Riordan's promises, I do not believe that the Orlesian Wardens will come. Loghain has instilled his fear too deep amongst the men; those who hold the borders will turn them back. And when they see how far the Blight has grown, I fear that they will seek to contain rather than combat, that they will name Ferelden a lost cause and instead see to their own._

But Morrigan offers an alternative. A child, conceived on the eve of battle. It would be born of Morrigan and a Grey Warden, carry his taint and somehow this would protect it, spare us from this terrible and inevitable truth. She proposes blood magic. And - Maker help us - I considered it.

Were Alistair still here, I would not think twice about denying her. But I cannot ask this thing even of Loghain. He would do it, citing necessity, I have no doubt. But I have made enough mistakes already where he is concerned and if the cost of this is my death then—

"Ignacio!" Cesar pushed through the trees, dragging with him a bound and struggling man. He deposited him roughly on his knees, a curtain of long, black hair obscuring a virulent stream of curses.

Startled, Zevran dropped the book, shoving it beneath his blankets. It was a moment before he truly comprehended the scene before him; his thoughts were still between those pages. Morrigan had proposed an alternative. She could have ended the Blight. Perhaps... perhaps she could end it still.

Ignacio had moved to stand before the stranger, grabbing him roughly by the chin while Cesar tightened the knots his wrists. The merchant was quick with his ropes, Zevran had to admit.

"He was sneaking round the camp, ill-intentioned by the look of him."

The words did not miss their mark. The man's features were pointed, his eyes sunken above what seemed to be a perpetual scowl. Blood stained the tiny point of beard beneath his broken lip, more staining Ignacio's boots as he spat.

"How dare—"

"How dare _I_?" Elbowing Cesar in the chest, the man struggled to his feet. There was pride – even nobility – to his words, but also a hardened venom that Zevran knew well. "Do you know whose land it is that you trespass upon?"

Ignacio arched a brow. "Certainly not _yours_, by the look of you."

Of all things, the man chuckled, but his whisper did not lose its whipcrack edge "You might say I've been traveling. My family's keep lies nearby, but it is abandoned now."

"An abandoned keep?" Cesar stopped nursing his pride, glancing up with something like a smile, but Ignacio silence him with a look.

This did not escape the stranger, his scowl deepening as he flexed his bonds. "Untie me."

Ignacio tsked. "No, I do not think that would be wise. But we shall have you as our guest, yes? We shall see this keep of yours." At his nod, Cesar dragged the man away from the fire, depositing him beside Zevran's bedroll. "But we are not inhospitable. Zevran, feed our noble lord."

Filling his bowl from the cookpot, Zevran crouched before the stranger, casting a wary glance over his shoulder. Cesar had slipped away to resume his watch, while Ignacio seemed content to busy himself with his spices. He dropped his voice to a congenial whisper. "Do you have a name, my friend?"

The stranger sneered at the proffered bowl. "Nathaniel Howe."

Howe. So those features _had_ seemed familiar. Zevran had seen them recently, though on a corpse. Perhaps best not to mention it.

"Your masters are thieves."

"They are not my masters... or not precisely in the way that you assume. We are Antivan Crows."

His eyes darkened with understanding. They had been watching the old man over Zevran's shoulder, looking for some sign of weakness. Now he settled back with a sigh.

"Their interest in your keep is merely a matter of practicality, you understand. We are rather known for it." Zevran brought the bowl to his lips. If the man would not eat, he saw no harm in doing so himself. "But I wonder why you did not remain there yourself, hm?"

"Are you known for your wagging tongues as well?"

"Alas, no. That is just I."

The man's gaze flitted away. "I travel south. My father was last seen in Denerim."

"Ah. Then I am afraid you will have a rather disappointing journey ahead of you. Denerim is beset, you see."

"I am not deaf. I know of the Blight. But there may be survivors still."

One would think so, yes. Zevran scowled.

"But it appears as though it's three against one. And three Crows, no less." The young lord sank back on his heels.

"Cesar is no Crow, simply an ill-tempered merchant... and it could be two against two, if you wish. Though I _do_ usually prefer to have the odds unbalanced, well in my favor, of course."

Nathaniel looked up in surprise. "You would help me?"

"I, too, travel south."

"Where?"

"The Korcari Wilds." The words escaped him without thought. But the plan had been forming all this time, it seemed. If Morrigan could be found, perhaps it could all somehow be... not worth it, never that... but perhaps it was not yet too late.

Nathaniel Howe regarded him for a long moment, a wicked smile tugging at the corners of his lips. When he spoke, the words rang loud. "You camp in the Wending Woods. Haunted, they say it is... with trees come to life, the earth itself angered." His eyes roamed round, speaking for the darkness. "But what does the earth know? We are _men_. It is the shortest route for our caravans and anything that stands in our way shall be crushed beneath their wheels."

Zevran knew better than to ask what the man intended, but he slipped his blades from his back. He had been allowed to keep them, of course; his imprisonment went much deeper than the simply physical. And Ignacio was always the first to rise and the last to sleep, confident that he had nothing to fear. But the old man had straightened now, looking suspiciously to the swaying of the trees.

There was a cry in the darkness, the bellow angry and familiar. Cesar. He stumbled back into the camp, wide-eyed. "The-the trees... they live!"

But he had come close to where they stood, Nathaniel's knee jerking to take him between the legs. As he doubled over, the young lord rammed a shoulder beneath his chin, cracking the jaw as he collapsed. Still his wrists were bound behind him.

Zevran made as if to cut them, but he was already turning away. "This is not the time!"

Ignacio charged them with a strangled cry, but the earth erupted between them, the entire clearing seeming to come suddenly to life. Back the Master stumbled, the fire rising up to welcome him as the trees closed round.

The main road lay somewhere in the opposite direction and already Nathaniel was dashing for it. Pausing only to scoop the book from his blankets, Zevran grabbed his pack and followed. He found the human waiting against a distant post, well out of the shadow of any tree. Finally, Zevran cut his bonds.

"Do not tell me you believe in woodland spirits, my friend."

The young lord almost smiled, the gesture out of place on those hard and sallow features. "Spirits, no. Rumors of the angry Dalish, yes." Scowling again, he fixed his eyes on the road ahead. "South, then?"


	3. Chapter 3

He was dreaming of death.

He did not toss; he did not turn. This was a good dream, a dream that any man would welcome. The ogre charged, roaring with surprise as he slipped aside in the final moments, his sword swinging round to slice it behind the knees. The blood that flowed over his hands was strong, hot and surging. He set himself, ready as it turned and charged again.

This time he struck, plunging the blade deep into the creature's thigh, grunting as it was ripped from his grasp. Beneath its ragged scream it noticed him, saw him disarmed. If such a thing were possible, the ogre seemed to laugh. But pain bloomed from his wrist before its blow could land, the piercing bite of tugging and insistent teeth. This was a new sort of wetness, his cry one of frustration as he was pulled aside, out of the ogre's reach, away from that welcome death.

But that tug was gentle now, lapping at the tiny wounds still peppering his arm. Sten opened his eyes. For once he had not woken screaming.

"_Pashaara_. Get off of me."

The mabari whined, sitting back on its haunches. It had been it that had denied him death, it that had buried its face in the staggering ogre's throat after pulling Sten clear. Now it cocked its head, licking at lips that were freshly reddened. Looking down, he saw the chicken between them.

Sten grunted. "You have my thanks."

The hound gave a happy bark.

He rose stiffly, stoking the tiny fire as he set the kettle for their breakfast. Turning the bird round in his hands, he quirked a brow. "I see that you have already taken your share."

With a sniff, it stretched beside him, laying a patient head on its paws. Not for the first time, Sten wondered if he should think of something to call the creature. "Scraps," She had named it, but this would do little to strike fear in the hearts of its foes, held nothing of the warrior and unflagging companion that he had come to know.

It had been weeks since they left Denerim. The ogre had been only a brief diversion, but already he had seen that the battle was turning against them. Men were returning to the gate in straggling twos and threes. At first he had cursed them for their weakness, but then they had begun to speak. Both of the Grey Wardens had fallen.

He had paused at that - longer than he ought - but there was a choice now before him. He could remain to die with honor and futility, or seek to regain the advantage that they had lost. The decision was made before his blade was sheathed. If the archdemon required a Warden, then he would bring it one... even if he had to drag the coward kicking and crying.

And so he had left that place, assuring himself that it was merely a matter of tactical practicality. The mabari had followed without command, without apparent regard for its master's fate. He supposed it simply knew, the same as he. After a time, he found himself almost grateful for the company.

Once his belly was filled they set off again, leaving the hills of Redcliff behind them. Sten had suspected something of Alistair's character well before his outburst at the Landsmeet. His outrage had been expected - perhaps even justified - but if he had truly wanted the man Loghain dead, he should have drawn his blade and made it so. Instead, it had been only a child's bleating that echoed in that hall. And while a child the man had called that hillside town his home. It had seemed a logical place to start.

But Redcliff had been abandoned and again Sten faced the task of attempting to think like such a man. Where would he go if his spine had so shriveled? Where would he flee if he left his steps to the whims of sentiment?

He growled beneath his breath, looking down into the valley below. A passing band of refugees had mentioned a spirit lurking in the small town nestled there, answering the Qunari's questions with a fearful eagerness to be away. One among them had seemed less frightened than the rest, naming instead a wandering stranger, haggard and slinking but with a bearing that was once perhaps proud.

And so they had returned to Honnleath. There were no darkspawn now that he could see, either moved north to join the horde or fled after their last visit. Either way, he did not draw his sword as he crossed beneath the gate. If there was one thing he trusted, it was his own work.

Cresting the hill he paused, looking toward the empty square. It was a pity that he had lost sight of Shale during the battle; its - her - might would have been a welcome thing. But there had been other golems, he reminded himself. It was simply a pity that the dwarves had not had time to make a hundred more.

Had he truly been thinking like his quarry, such nostalgia might have been cause for distraction. But he did not miss the quiet footfalls behind him, the shadow slipping between buildings on the edge of sight. The mabari laid back its ears, the low growl in its throat an echo of his own.

Sten whirled and charged cross the square in a single motion, pinning a struggling figure against the wall of the nearest home. The force of it lifted the man bodily, fear mingling with the stink of his thin and filthy robes.

He was accustomed to humans cowering at his appearance, but the man's eyes narrowed, his lips twitching in recognition. "You!"

Lank, black hair framed pale and sunken cheeks, the beard patchy and thin, a half-hearted shadow that would shame even a child's chin. Sten scowled, letting the man fall. "Mage."

"Jowan, actually." He darted low, making as if to pick up the contents of his fallen sack. But he paused in mid-crouch, seeming to think better of it as he blinked up at the looming Qunari. Defiantly snatching up one of the tomes, he scrambled backward, attempting to meet Sten's glower with a sullen glare of his own. "She sent you here to find me, didn't she? Thought better of letting me go?"

Odd objects littered the stones, flasks and vials, worn books, a broken bit of crystal. This last Sten nudged with his toe, crushing it beneath his boot with a slow and simple gesture. "She is dead."

"Ah. Well." Spotting the mabari, Jowan's eyes widened, tongue flitting cross his lips.

The dog growled a warning.

"It-it's not _stealing_, you know. Not if the town's abandoned. And whatever mage lived here has got to be dead; I don't think I could have gotten in otherwise." His eyes remained locked to the hound's, perhaps wondering if it would be more reasonable than its companion. "...Powerful, though. Some of this might even be enough to get me back into the Tower, if they hadn't closed it off. I don't know which would be worse, being made tranquil or ending up in some darkspawn belly... or multiple darkspawn bellies."

But already Sten was starting back down the hill.

"Hey! Where are you going?"

"Away."

"Don't you even want to know how I've stayed alive? Avoided the templars?"

"No."

Jowan made as if to follow, but stopped short. "Scattered you all to the winds, didn't it? Without the Warden around, I mean. At least you look better than your friend."

Gritting his teeth, Sten turned slowly round

"Funny, when you think about it. That I made it farther than your templar."

The big man took a heavy step forward.

"Hah. So it's _him_ you're looking for. _Now_ you're interested in what I have to say." At the next step, he paled even further, holding up a warning hand. "I'm a maleficar, you realize. You can't just—"

Sten closed the gap, twisting the mage's arm.

"Oh, _ow_!"

"Speak. And I may let you keep your tongue."

"R-Redcliff. Not a week past."

"I have been to Redcliff." He did not tighten his grip, but still the other man flinched. "It is abandoned."

"Then you obviously weren't looking very hard. They're all shut up in the castle. Same as in the Tower. Same as everywhere else." Jerking his arm away, Jowan sniffed. "But not your templar. I almost didn't recognize him at first, filthy and hairy and lying beneath a table in the ruins of the inn."

"...Dead?"

"Drunk." He chuckled - a nasal, hiccoughing sound. "Not a dry bottle left in the place."

Sten's fists clenched at his sides. Useless, all of them. But it was said that the Warden who faced the archdemon would not survive; perhaps the beast had only to devour him to be sated. Perhaps he might find some enjoyment in this after all. With a sigh he turned back to the road, leaving the mage standing amongst his broken treasures.

"So you're going to help him, then?"

Sten did not turn round, scratching the dog behind an ear as it fell into step beside him. "Something like that."


	4. Chapter 4

"It's not that I don't appreciate the irony..." Anders had lagged behind again, stomping the snow from his boots as he bent to trail a careful flame along the sodden hem of his robes.

Stopping in the path ahead, Leliana arched a brow.

"What?" He grinned. "Blatant abuse of power, right? Shirking this heavy burden of responsibility to toy with forces that at any moment could rage out of control, threatening women and children and innocent puppies?"

She could not help but giggle. "I was merely wondering why you would go to all the bother when in moments they will be wet again."

"Comfort." Spreading his arms wide, he did a half-turn to let her admire the effect. "It's the simple things, you know? If you like, I could do something about your hair. It's looking a bit—"

A snap of his fingers produced another tiny flame, but this one flared, exploding past Leliana's shoulder as she shrieked and threw herself aside.

"On second thought..." Looking down with a sheepish grin, he found her rump planted firmly in a drift, arms folded and dripping as she glared up at him. "Ooh. Sorry."

"You have a peculiar definition of comfort." Leliana did her best to scowl. "Help me up." She waited until he bent to offer his hand, tightening her grip as her boot took him in the knee and sent him sprawling into the snow beside her.

Anders' curse was muffled, one arm groping blindly for her, but already she was rolling away, filling each hand with a ball of the fluffy powder. When finally he raised his head, the snow was clinging to his spluttering lips, more erupting against the side of his head as she loosed.

"Hey! _Hey!_"

Scooping two more handfuls, Leliana crouched across the path, laughing as he attempted to regain his feet in tangled robes. "You are not the only one with skills."

"Fair point. Would you consider a truce?"

She pretended to debate for a moment, smirking as she let the snowballs fall. "For now."

"So I should watch my back?" He bowed aside as she climbed back onto the path, ushering her ahead of him. "I'd much prefer to watch yours."

Starting out again, she sighed. Many of the mountain passes were too narrow for them to walk abreast and, in truth, she had been leading for most of the day. Two nights they had slept beyond the relative comfort of Haven's walls, but the warmth of the lower hills had yet to reach them. She tried to recall how long their previous journey down the mountain had taken, realized that she could not. Already the days were blurring, memory replaced by recited words, the sound of Her laughter lost beneath half-composed ballads. Soon it would be a tale of deeds, nothing more. For the first time in her life, Leliana had a sense that that was not enough.

When she did not retort, Anders leaned close. "As I was saying... _me_, hunting a _templar_. Funny, don't you think?"

"He wasn't a templar, not really." Her words were distracted, the unthinking slip into past tense giving her pause. If the man in Haven had spoken true, Alistair was alive. There was still a Grey Warden - a hero - left in this world.

"Not a templar? I thought you said he was a templar."

She stopped exasperated, turning to look up at him. The similarities that she had seen between the two men had faded, his face grown almost familiar now… and it seemed he was learning to read her as well.

His eyes narrowed, head tilting with concern. "What?"

Too long had she been traveling alone; perhaps she had leapt too eager at the promise of company. At first she had thought it only his vague resemblance to Alistair, but the jests - the flirtations - reminded her of Her. She had enjoyed these few days, enjoyed them too much.

"It is nothing. He simply did not take the vows."

"Ah." Anders grinned. "Well, I suppose that's alright, then. But you're sure he doesn't harbor any mage-hating tendencies?"

"Not unless you are Morrigan." Turning, she started back down the path.

"And how about you? Nothing to say about my wickedness? No nagging admonitions planted by those Sisters of yours?"

"We all have a chance to atone, to make ourselves better than what we were…"

"Better?" He laughed. "Not much chance of that."

But the words had sent her thoughts back again, searching for the phrases, the melodies to capture all that they had almost accomplished. And so they continued on in silence. When Anders spoke again, he seemed hesitant to interrupt her, prefacing the words with a gentle cough.

"So... did you ever wonder whey there were no dwarves in Haven?"  
She turned to look back at him, following his gaze off to the side of the path. At first she saw only snow, smooth and unbroken, but soon her eyes were able to pick out its upper edge, the half-buried support beams staggered at even intervals. They were staring at a wall of ice.

"Oh, Maker."

Lifting his robes, Anders stepped carefully from the path. Before his boots could sink, a row of dark faces appeared above the wall.  
"Human camp's up the mountain!"

"We're going down, actually."

"Go then!"

Glancing over his shoulder at Leliana, Anders rolled his eyes. "My friend here is a bard. Songs to warm the heart in exchange for something to warm our bellies."

Above them, someone snorted.

Still Anders smiled, taking her by the hand to help her off the path. She resisted the urge to hit him as she pushed her forward like an offering. "Would you laugh at tales of the mighty Grey Wardens? News from the battle of Denerim?"

"Hah! I was _at_ Denerim! Most of us were. Fat load of good it did us, fighting beside humans."

But there was movement now behind the wall, muted curses and the clattering of arms. Leliana had not seen a break in the hard-packed snow, but a dwarf appeared at its center, stepping out to wave them on. "Be quiet, all of you! I know her."

As they approached, she saw that it was not one wall but two, the sections overlapping to give the appearance of solid ice. It was a moment before she looked down at the dwarf, struggling with a vague recollection. "I am sorry, but I do not know..."

"How's the belt treating you?" He tapped a finger against the scales at her waist. They were heavier than the rest of her armor, but finely worked, the intricate links lighter and more supple than they first appeared.

Recognition dawning, she smiled. "You are the dwarf from the Denerim market, no?"  
"Gorim." He shook her hand, extending the gesture to Anders as well. "And you... you traveled with the Warden."

"I did."

She need not say more; his expression was one of sympathy, a sense of loss that seemed to be shared by everyone they met. "Come on inside. I can't promise it'll be the best of welcomes, but this might be a story worth hearing."

They followed the dwarf between the walls, her gaze falling on the soldiers manning the battlements on the other side. By their armor, they might well have been the same that had marched on Denerim, but there was something hushed and heavy here. Guards stared blankly out across the featureless land and everywhere others slouched, lifting their heads only long enough to glare.

Tents and lean-tos were crowded in haphazard rows, but Leliana's eyes strayed to the marvel that lay ahead. Here the mountainside loomed, but the snows had been reshaped and hollowed, conquered by the ageless will of the dwarves. It was the beginnings of a sprawling pueblo, a shadow of Orzammar come to life in shades of purest white. Igloos, too, dotted the deeper reaches of the camp, construction halting only briefly as they passed.

This high in the mountains, the ice would barely weep with the changing of the seasons. These structures might well last for years. She had to wonder at that. The dwarves were not returning home; they were settling.

It was to the pueblo that Gorim led them, through the mouth of one of the starkly geometric caves. Leliana had prepared herself to duck, but the space beyond was wider than she had imagined, cut into the deepest snows of the mountain. Walls and ceiling formed deliberate corners, carefully covered lamps reflecting on surfaces that had been polished until they shone with a wet, white light.

Round the edges of the room waited a ring of half-formed benches, but the tools lay scattered around them, for the moment abandoned. Only the seat at the ring's furthest edge stood completed. High-backed and massive it loomed - this icy throne - the old dwarf sitting stiffly upon it seemingly unmindful of the cold beneath him.

"Well, _that_ looks comfortable." Anders had followed her gaze, leaning close to whisper in her ear.

But Leliana recognized the old dwarf now, had glimpsed him only briefly in the very assembly chamber that this room sought to mirror. As if sensing the thought, he raised heavy-lidded eyes to hers.

The other dwarf that had been standing before him fell silent, pausing in the midst of an angry gesture. The two had been alone in the room and she had not heard their words, but still the argument hung between them, seeming to reverberate against the walls. By his thick and battered armor, this was one of the soldiers, the scowl that he turned on them no more welcoming than those of his comrades.

"Humans?"

"Friends of the Grey Warden." Gormin inclined his head. "They seek food, shelter."

"So we built the wall to let just anyone stroll through?"

"They are refugees, the same as us."

The soldier scoffed. "That's surfacer thinking."

"In case you have forgotten, Doric, we are all sufacers now." Gorim met the other dwarf's eyes unafraid, but a cough from the elder silenced them both.

Leliana took the opportunity to step forward, bending into a deep bow. "Lord Harrowmont."

His smile was soft, tired. "You were indeed one of the Grey Warden's companions, the very same who sided with Bhelen against me."

"We all face many difficult decisions, My Lord. But I am glad to see that you are well. I had heard that you were to be executed."

He chuckled. "And so I was... in the tradition of my people. I was cast into the Deep Roads, but it seems that the darkspawn have moved on, come entirely to the surface. I was able to escape through one of their holes virtually unmolested."

"You were exiled. But…" Leliana looked to the soldier, the question left unspoken.

He folded his arms with a deep glower. "As were we. When the battle turned, Bhelen – _King_ Bhelen – shut the doors behind us."

"What, and leave his entire army on the surface?"

That glare was turned on Anders now. "We lost many. Only perhaps a sixth of our strength remains." He sighed. "I might have done the same."

"So Orzammar is defenseless."

"Orzammar will stand!" Subsiding, Doric shook himself and turned his face away. "Bhelen always did favor the casteless. Maybe he means to arm them in our place."

"The transition has not been easy for any of us." Looking past them, Harrowmont raised a hand, signaling to a girl loitering in the doorway. She hurried forward, bearing a tray with three chipped mugs.

Leliana did not sniff too deeply of the black ale but it was warm, the feel of the cup welcome as she turned it between her hands. Words failing, she bowed her head.

"…surprised we have any left," the girl was saying.

But Leliana's eyes were locked to the old lord's boots, their gold on gold filigree gleaming in the light of the lamps. "Lord Harrowmont... those boots... where did you get them?"

It was the girl who answered. "From your Warden. Traded them for a barrel of our finest ale. Drank up twice that much before he was done with us."

"Hush, Felsi." Gorim lay a quieting hand on her arm. "The Warden... the other one. He passed this way, too."

"When?"

"A week, maybe more."

Anders was shaking his head. "And he left his _boots_ behind? I know templars don't tend to be the brightest candles on the altar - but what sort of a moron climbs a mountain barefoot?"

"He was headed down, same as you." Gorim shrugged. "And there's not much human armor that can fit dwarves - boots, gloves, some of the larger helms. He insisted on giving something in return."

"Oh, brilliant. We're looking for a fair-minded popscicle."

But Leliana was smiling now. "Did be say where he was going?"

Harrowmont sighed, nodding sadly from his frozen throne. "He said that he was going home."


	5. Chapter 5

"You would make a terrible assassin, my friend."

"You think so, do you?" Nathaniel did not turn round, crouching beside a low hillock to run his blade through the dry and overgrown grass. He seemed to be searching for something, stopping frequently as they approached the shadow of Denerim's walls. A tangle of weeds pushed aside, a boot carefully prodding the earth, but Zevran did not question him. His own eyes roamed higher, unable to turn away from the dark spire of the city's central tower, the fort looming just beyond.

But he could feign indifference. Squatting beside the scowling lord, he chuckled. "A well-aimed bow may be deadly in its way, but one slip and you are revealed, your target given ample room to flee."

"Which is why I do not _slip_."

In truth, Zevran dreaded the day he would find himself in the man's sights. They had encountered at least four parties of roving darkspawn since moving into the fields around the city and this young Howe had not wasted a single shot. Some he had deigned to finish with a blade, a quick slit to the throat as he jerked his arrows free. Of the effort, the stench, he voiced no complaint. In their way, they had settled into a quiet sort of companionship, an unspoken understanding. Here was a man with purpose... and a debt to pay.

But it was this purpose that might soon find an arrow at Zevran's throat. Even now, in shouting distance of the city's walls, he had not mentioned the elder Howe. Word of his death had obviously not reached his son... though with all that had happened, he supposed that the messengers had more important stories to tell. If there were any messengers left. They had passed many humans - dwarves and elves lying stinking beside them - but still they had held their silence. Yet, Zevran had not missed the almost imperceptible twitch to the man's lips as he lingered to count the fallen. For all his practiced scowls, the eyes that turned away were those of a wounded boy.

Again, his own strayed above them. He was no stranger to the dead, had left larger piles of flesh in his own wake. Funny that it should be stone that so unsettled him, a mere echo of shouted words. Would she still be there? There at the end of that terrible fall?

Zevran pinched shut his eyes. The man beside him may seem little more than a child, but he wondered what it would be that Nathaniel saw if he glanced his way.

"But you clearly prefer blades. If you think to horrify me by expounding on the merits of the close kill, the feel of your enemy's blood upon your hands... know that I have seen war."

Had he truly?

Opening one eye, Zevran quirked a brow. "You, my dear Lord Howe, are quite disturbed."

With a snort Nathaniel pushed to his feet, making his way again across the blackened fields. Soon they would be skirting the wall itself, keeping low as they had all day. But the city was silent, even the great, winged shadow having passed overhead long ago. It had not stopped; they were beneath the archdemon's notice. All that it might have feared was gone now, lying broken somewhere below Fort Drakon.

His steps were unhurried as he followed. He did not cower, did not wonder at how he had allowed himself to be drawn along on this fool's errand, why he had not spoken the words that would see it end.

Nathaniel had reached the wall, glancing back with an urgent hiss. "And you said _I_ would make a poor assassin."

"I did not account for your nobility. Perhaps you are better suited to skulking in the shadows than I suspected."

The young lord did not retort as Zevran fell into place behind him, his eyes continuing to search the ground as they picked their way forward.

"Your Amaranthine was abandoned. Why is it you think that your father came here?"

"They say that Loghain granted him the Arling of Denerim... and the Teyrnir of Highever." Even the hesitation did not slow his pace.

"And you have been to this Highever?"

"Must you always ask irritating questions?"

Zevran shrugged, but the gesture was lost on Nathaniel's back. "Perhaps he did come here. Perhaps he... settled in. But if you have not noticed, my friend, Denerim has suffered a rather unfortunate change of stewardship."

The man spared him a glance then, smirking beneath narrowed eyes. With a sniff and a shake of his head, he turned back to his work.

"So confident, you nobles. But Loghain is dead; surely this you have heard. If your father was truly his man, would he not have been at his side?"

Nathaniel paused at that, straightening with stiffened shoulders. He did not turn round.

"Ah. You do not believe he was _at_ the battle." Zevran tsked. "You think your own father a coward."

It was slowly that the young lord turned, but his expression was hard and unreadable as ever. "My father was many things." He took a sudden step back, crouching to brush a hand across the dirt between them. With a jerk, he pulled it free - a trapdoor leading down beneath the wall.

Zevran blinked.

"Perhaps you were right the first time - we nobles do love to _skulk_." His lips twitched with suppressed triumph. "Arl Urien, the previous Arl of Denerim, was rather known for his paranoia. Some say he built saferooms and escape hatches beyond even the knowledge of the king. My father was a... clever man. He would have known his new home."

Zevran scooped up a stone and handed it over without thought, watching as Nathaniel tossed it into the hole to gauge the depth. Finding the echo satisfactory, he knelt and prepared to lower himself into the abyss.

"Nathaniel."

"Yes?" The man looked up with genuine curiosity.

"...Nothing. It is nothing."

He dropped from sight without another word, leaving Zevran to wonder at his own hesitation. Casting one more glance to the walls above them, he leapt.

The space below was dark and narrow, the ceiling low enough that both men found themselves bending nearly double. Nathaniel had struck his flint, wrapping a spare bit of cloth round a splintered plank from the door. The sudden glare illuminated his set jaw and narrowed eyes, those pointed features dangerously shadowed. He cast only a cursory glance behind him before pushing forward.

Zevran could not say how long they walked, though his mind strayed to the city above, trying to count their steps, the distance to the fort beyond. So lost in thought was he that when Nathaniel paused, he collided with his back.

"Mind yourself." With a grunt Nathaniel stepped aside, nodding to the door ahead. The wood was old but thick, the way clearly barred. The young lord looked perplexed.

"There is a trick for dealing with such obstacles, my friend." Slipping past, Zevran raised his hand and knocked.

"Andraste's blood!"

His curse was echoed behind the door, a sudden crash heralding an arrival at its other side. A second voice joined it, the argument muffled but unmistakable. After a long moment, a heavy bolt slid aside, the door cracking just enough to reveal a pair of suspicious eyes and one very sharp blade.

Zevran grinned, surprised. "Ah, hello my dear. Erlina, yes?"

He had met the elven woman only briefly, but her face flashed with familiar disappointment. "It is the Crow, My Lady." Her gaze flickered to Nathaniel. "And he is not alone."

The queen herself appeared behind her handmaiden. Head tilting curiously, her eyes widened in recognition. "...Nathaniel Howe?"

"Anora."

"I am Queen now, actually."

"So I have heard."

He did not so much as incline his head and for a long moment the two stared at each other, neither giving ground. Eventually Anora sniffed, turning away. "Allow them in, Erlina."

"Where are we?" Nathaniel wasted no time, pushing past the elf to cast his eyes about. The room was small, cluttered with an old but well-upholstered bed, barrels of water and salted meats, a few wheels of cheese. Something scuttled in the corner.

"Beneath the palace."

"The palace."

Putting herself in front of him, Anora folded her arms. "I take it you are not here to rescue me?"

"Rescue you?" Still his gaze wandered, the words distracted as he searched for another exit. "I did not know you were here. I am looking for my father."

Anora looked past him, fixing Zevran beneath a wondering smirk. "You did not tell him?"

"Tell me what?"

"Arl Howe is dead."

Zevran shrugged. "...a fact that I may have neglected to mention, yes."

"But was it not your companions that murdered him? Your Grey Warden?"

Nathaniel took a slow step forward.

"Ah, but I took the liberty of... dispatching the Warden soon after." He dropped into a deep bow. "The very task for which your father hired me."

Anora sniffed, but Nathaniel paid her no mind. "I assume he did not hire you from beyond the grave. Is there a reason why you did not act sooner?"

"You know how these things go. It is a complicated business, assassination."

He stared for a long moment, gritting his teeth as he strode toward the door. Zevran stiffened, but the man passed him without a glance.

"Where are you going?" Still Anora stood impassive, imperious.

"I have what I came for. There is nothing for me here."

"Then take with you a message. Tell the people that Ferelden yet has a queen, that she rules from the palace still."

"Hah!" Nathaniel spun with a bitter snort. "A dominion of rats and mice? A treasury filled with salted pork? You are a fool, Anora."

"Please, My Lord." Erlina grabbed hold of his arm.

He sneered instinctively, almost as though he would shake her away, but something in her expression gave him pause.

"My Lady is merely stubborn. She has been brave, but I am frightened. Take us from this place, I beg you."

Nathaniel chuckled. "It is noble of you to say what your master will not."

At his smirk, Anora turned her face away.

"Ever was she stubborn." Moving back into the room, he paused before the queen, offering his arm with a mocking bow. "If Your Majesty will accompany me..."

"Take them my message. That is all."

"As you wish."

But again Erlina blocked his path. "Please, My Lord! You must make her see reason!"

"Are you expecting a grand gesture? That I throw her over my shoulder and bear her out of here like a sack of potatoes?" Nodding back at her, he sniffed. "I am leaving. She can follow if she wishes. Unless the weight of the crown as turned her ankles as well as dimming her wits." Pushing the elf gently aside, he made his way out the door.

Zevran hurried to keep pace, chuckling to himself as the women followed behind. He let his voice carry for their benefit. "I am not entirely certain that this particular rescue is wise, my friend. The Queen may well sell us out to the first darkspawn we meet. She does have that habit."

Nathaniel did not slow, did not meet his eye. "Something else that you _neglected to mention_?" With that, he lengthened his stride, disappearing into the shadows ahead.


	6. Chapter 6

"If the Drunken Dwarf is too easily tired, I would be happy to return it to camp."

From his perch on the golem's shoulder, Oghren could see well out across the hills, past the smoldering ruins of the city. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to be looking for, but the sun seemed to be reflecting on every surface, bathing the withered grasses in a wavering, blinding heat.

"I ain't had a drink in weeks, ya know… Heh. Maybe that's the problem."

"Oh, yes. I have heard the humans speaking of a noticeable improvement in it's smell."

"You can put me down now."

"Gladly." Shale stooped, growling with wounded dignity as she allowed him to slide down her back.

Oghren landed hard, teetering as he braced a hand against the golem's knee. Weeks now and still the leg threatened to give. Wynne had done her best, but she had cautioned him to rest, made him agree to let the sodding pile of stone carry him around like a sack of nug droppings when he protested. At least Shale seemed no more pleased about it than he.

"Did it at least spy anything of interest?"

"Nah." He sighed, slumping down on a nearby log. "Buncha darkspawn, big dragon. Same as always."

"Good. Then the archdemon is where we want it to be." The voice carried through the trees behind them, borne on long and determined strides. Other than that Oghren wouldn't have recognized the woman. Still her hair was pulled back into a severe bun, but her robes had been exchanged for tight-fitting leathers, the laces of her tunic straining to conceal an ample rise of bosom.

He goggled, spluttering into his beard. "_Stone_, woman!"

Wynne only laughed. "We are guerillas now, it seems, and my robes are horribly worn. I thought I might try looking the part."

There had been a convenient network of cellars beneath Denerim's outlying farms, enough to shelter a few dozen survivors and deserters. Oghren couldn't say how he himself had escaped from the city. He remembered the Warden, a wordless argument with that nug-loving elf, the pillar that had crushed his leg. But after that there was nothing. Shale claimed to have found him outside the walls.

They'd been harrying the darkspawn ever since. Apparently they were a small enough band to be beneath the archdemon's notice, but they were doing what they could to make their numbers seem larger. Just over a week since Bann Teagan and his riders had left for the border, gone to get find more Wardens in Orlais. It was left to them to keep the archdemon's eyes on the city, to be the distraction. At the memory of seeing the creature up close, seeing Her swept aside like She was nothing - all thanks to that traitorous, little blighter - red had begun to seep in at the corners of his vision.

Heh. Distraction. He was just fine with that.

Oghren pushed to his feet, suddenly overcome with the desire to hit something. But again the leg gave, his curse lost beneath a moan of pain.

Crouching beside him, Wynne lay cooling hands on his knee.

"...Thanks."

Shale was still regarding them with narrowed eyes. "So the Elder Mage seeks to impersonate the Grey Warden? Is this the grief you spoke of?"

Oghren glared up at the golem. "It's called tact, ya useless rockslide!" The days spent on watch had been long and it was not the first time he regretted trying to make conversation.

But if the mage took offense, she hid it well. Seems she'd gotten good at that.

"Wynne!" There was a sudden crash in the trees behind them, one of the elven scouts pushing her way through the underbrush. For all the vaunted grace of her people, the girl found herself tangled in the brambles, ripping them free with a string of curses that made Oghren grin.

"Shianni? What is it?"

"We've got company." Striding to the edge of the trees, she pulled a spyglass from her belt and handed it to Wynne.

Shale gave a rumbling sigh. "Come, Dwarf." Grabbing Oghren by the collar, she deposited him back upon her shoulders.

From the familiar vantage, he could spot the shadowed figures snaking cross the pale grasses. "They're headin' right for us."

"The Mage has selected the only tree cover for miles. Our position is obvious."

Oghren had to agree, but Wynne lowered the glass and smirked up at them both. "Darkspawn do not generally go about hooded." She turned to Shianni. "Still, we must be cautious. Tell Fergus to intercept."

"Cousland and his men are raiding in the east."

Chuckling to herself, the old woman smiled. "Then it falls to us."

Her hand strayed to the blade at her side, a gift from the Warden, recovered in the same frozen temple where they had found the dead woman's ashes. They said it was infused with magic - arcane something-or-other - but he'd seen the looks on the faces of the men. He didn't know much about mages and plenty of women in Orzammar carried bigger arms, but he had to agree that the sudden change was... unsettling.

Wynne had already stared back through the trees, meaning to slip down to the copse's edge and catch their quarry by surprise. A few more elves waited there, those from the Alienage already learning to blend beside their Dalish cousins. They'd adapted as easily to shimmying through the low grasses as to these few sparse trees. He'd bet they'd been through the tunnels too, maybe even back to the city. None of them were tethered to a big hunk of rock.

"The Dwarf's growls will give away our position." Shale shifted beneath him, angling just enough to poke a bit of crystal into his arse.

"'Ey! Watch it! And it ain't like your stompin's any better."

But they had reached the edge of the trees now, Wynne stopping ahead of them as the elves ranged wide. If he squinted, he could make out the figures cresting the rise just ahead, huddled and harried and making straight for their cover.

"Heh. Golem. You thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?"

"Gah! I should certainly hope not."

"Come on. Don't tell me you're not tired of all the waiting, the watching." He noticed her looking up at him now. "I mean, what's the point of being a big, soddin' killing machine if you're not—"

With a bellowing roar, Shale burst through the underbrush, charging toward the strangers. Oghren clutched at her crystals, biting a laugh as she pulled up short and slammed a pair of fists into the earth directly in their path. The four staggered, but none lost their footing and the man at their head wasted no time in whipping the bow from his back and leveling an arrow at the nose of the chortling dwarf.

A sudden breeze sent his cloak fluttering behind him, dark hair for the moment obscuring his scowl. It was the only movement in the stretching stillness, broken slowly by the elves rising from the grasses around them, their bows likewise drawn. Looking to the arrows trained on him, the stranger's lips twitched with amusement. "Hm."

"You may be a fine shot, my friend, but I fear in this even you are outmatched."

Oghren gaped, the familiar voice and slithering chuckle out of place on this strange human. The stranger lowered his bow as Zevran appeared behind him, stepping round to look up at them with an exaggerated shrug.

"_Gharh!_" Oghren threw himself from Shale's shoulder, the glare behind his eyes blinding him to the pain in his leg. He hit the elf hard, the momentum bearing them both back to tumble in the grass.

Zevran was laughing now. But another roll found Oghren on top, a knee to the chest knocking the breath from the elf as a fist to the mouth silenced him.

This at last seemed to reach him, a well-placed kick sending Oghren sprawling as Zevran rolled aside and drew his blades. He spat red. "If you wish to bed me, Oghren—"

"Shaddup." Ripping the axe from his back, he planted his feet.

"Enough!" One of the figures was hooded still, stepping between them with a sniff of distaste. Wynne stood now at Shale's side and it was to her that the stranger turned, delicate hands lowering the cowl with great ceremony. Looking to what remained of her people, Queen Anora solemnly inclined her head.

But the elves for their part were unmoved, the golem impassive, Oghren's own surprise forgotten as Zevran took the opportunity to drive an elbow into his gut. Even the stranger with the bow seemed to be stifling a laugh.

Wynne was the only one to return the gesture, doing her best to ignore the scuffle that had erupted again at their feet. "Your Majesty."


	7. Chapter 7

"Well. There she is."

Stepping onto the ridge beside Anders, Leliana nodded. "It is beautiful."

"That's one way of looking at it. It's also stifling, lonely and full of templars." He smirked. "And so _round_. You can't imagine how dizzying it is to spend your whole life walking in circles."

She could not help but laugh. In the waning light, the distant Circle Tower stretched its shadow long across the waters, lending a strange and somber tint to the reflecting sunset reds. But her own eyes picked out a deeper shadow, hugging the nearer shore. Redcliff Castle had borne witness to many horrible things. Yet, somehow it was what they might find there now that sent shivers up her back.

"Though I do suppose it has a certain appeal, if you're into obvious metaphors..." He glanced sideways at her. "You _do_ know what they say about mages, right?"

With a sigh, Leliana turned away, continuing along the path that would bring them round the lake's final bend.

Anders caught her arm. "You're practically dead on your feet. View like this, it might be a nice place to make camp."

"There is no need. We will be there in a matter of hours."

"Sure we will. In the dark. Possibly walking into a nest of darkspawn."

"You are afraid?"

"Of course not. Merely looking to spend another night beneath the stars with a beautiful woman." He grinned. "Or would you _prefer_ me to be afraid? I can do that. You may need to comfort me, though."

Chuckling despite herself, Leliana stepped away, scouting along the side of the path. "Perhaps you have a point. About the darkspawn. _Not_ the stars."

They made camp in a small clearing, sheltered on two sides by a bit of jutting rock. It would provide some measure of protection, but even if they took watches she doubted that she would get any true sleep. She had not slept for more than an hour at a time since Denerim. As Anders laid a low fire, she pulled the remains of the provisions that they had purchased from the dwarves from her pack.

Anders wrinkled his nose. "What I wouldn't give for a decent meal." But he smiled. "Not that I'm complaining about the company. And this place is almost cozy. Throw in a story and it might feel almost homey."

"A story?"

"It's what you do, isn't it? They say practicing a trade keeps a man happy... a woman too, I suppose."

Leliana arched a brow. "And do _you_ have a trade?"

"Not as such." He waggled his fingers, smirking at the sparks that crackled cross his knuckles. After a moment, he nodded back toward the road. "So... this Alistair was born in Redcliff?"

She sighed. "His mother was a servant in the castle, fortunate enough to be granted a position beneath Arl Eamon's roof. She was—"

"You've told me plenty about your wayward templar. What I want to hear about is the _other_ Warden."

Leliana blinked. "I told that story. In Haven."

"You told the story of her death. I get the feeling there's more to it than that."

Sitting back, she shook her head. "Why do you want to know?"

"You're working on something; I've heard you humming as we walk. Also, because you clearly don't want to talk about it."

"So it is your mission to irritate me?"

He grinned. "Maybe."

Staring into the flames for a long moment, Leliana shook her head. She let herself sag, sinking onto her back to stare up through the canopy. The stars were still there, unchanged despite all that had happened. They reminded her of the tale of Alindra, as they always did... but she could no longer see the beauty there.

The melody was borrowed, the same that she had sang in the early days of that long-ago journey, a song of comfort in times of mourning. But the words were different now, tinged with a sadness she could not describe, drying what little hope had carried on those familiar crescendos and resolutions.

Anders settled some distance away, propped on an elbow to look down at her. But Leliana kept her gaze to the stars. Her voice was trembling at first, quiet and unaccompanied, but with each meeting, each adventure, each bit of remembered laughter, it grew stronger. Laying there in the darkness her eyes began to sting, laying there she told him everything.

Silence hung when at last the tale was finished, broken only by her tired sigh.

"Hm. I see why you loved her."

She rolled onto her side, pillowing her head on her arm. "I... we were not..."

Anders smile was quiet as he sat up and folded his legs. "It's like gravity."

She must have made a face, for he laughed.

"Like calls to like. Did you even wonder why when you toss a feather into the air, it doesn't fall as fast as a stone? Because the stone is the same as the earth below it; it can't help it. It's the same reason fire always begets more fire, why nothing moves through the air so fast as the wind. All these companions that you mentioned, always with the Warden at their center... it seems like it's the same thing."

"We were hardly heroes."

"Are you certain of that? I've been following you on this mad quest for a while now and I've definitely spotted some heroic tendencies."

Leliana pushed herself into a sitting position. "And what about you? You travel with me."

"Oh, hardly. No, I've never been the hero type." He chuckled. "Though a Grey Warden... the Tower would never be able to touch me then. Oh, well."

"How do you know all of this anyway?"

"I'm a mage." He tapped the side of his head. "Known for our wisdom and all that. Also, we live in a big, boring Tower with nothing to do but hang about in a library."

"When you are not escaping."

He shrugged. "What can I say? Everyone needs a hobby."

Anders came to his feet and turned for his bedroll, but Leliana found herself standing with him. "Thank you for listening."

"And for painstakingly dragging the words out of you under threat of death?"

"And for that." Her eyes darted away. The silence seemed to turn heavy, the clearing suddenly close and warm. It was a familiar sensation, one that stirred both surprise and pain.

But Anders only chuckled. "Too bad, though. Here I thought you were flirting with me." He lay a fleeting kiss on her forehead, mumbling something about the first watch as he turned and disappeared into the trees.

* * *

She did not wake until well after first light. It was the smell of breakfast that finally reached her, of a bit of charred rabbit dangling an inch from her nose.

Crouching above her, Anders laughed. "So much for that early start."

She had slept. Blessed Andraste, she had _slept_.

They filled their bellies amidst jokes about mages learning to hunt and the benefits of instant cooking. But Redcliff waited still, the path beginning to slope down into the gorge that housed the town before the sun had reached its peak.

"Shouldn't we be heading for the castle? Considering we're hunting a sort-of royal?"

She shook her head. "Alistair was... reluctant about his blood at best. We should start with the town. Perhaps the people have seen something."

But nothing stirred in the square below; no scouts ran to greet them as they crossed the bridge. Pausing there, Leliana sighed. She could not say what she had expected, but the emptiness here was complete.

"Maybe we should ask that fellow there... that large, heavily armed..." Anders took a step back, hand straying to his staff as Leliana turned to follow his gaze.

Her jaw dropped. Before she knew it she was running, kicking up dust as Anders spluttered choking behind her. The hulking figure on the path below had only a moment to hold up a warning hand, but she ignored him utterly, throwing her arms around him with a desperate affection that she had forgotten she possessed. "Sten!"

The Qunari shifted uncomfortably but the hands on her shoulders were gentle, pushing her away with ease. On anyone else his expression would have been a fearful scowl, but she recognized the almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips.

"Bloody—! I almost thought you were making up the bit about the gentle Qunari, but you're hugging him and he's not eating us so..."

Sten quirked a brow at Anders. "That can be rectified."

"Oh, I know you don't actually _eat_ people. Who believes everything they read? I _did_ think you had horns, though."

The big man turned away, grumbling to himself.

"Scraps!" Leliana spotted the dog then, but the mabari flattened its ears, skirting her outstretched hand. She supposed she and the warhound had never exactly been close, but it had always greeted her with a happy bark, had never shied from a good scratch behind the ears. Perhaps it was true what they said about mabari and their masters. She could imagine something of what it felt.

"Aw, it's cute."

Turning to Anders, it growled.

"Hm. Suppose it understood me? I mean it's... fearsome, terrifying really. Good dog."

Seemingly satisfied, it sniffed and began trotting up the hill. Sten made as if to follow.

"Sten? Where are you going?"

He scowled down at her hand on his arm, but his sigh was tired, defeated. "I am searching for the Grey Warden. He is not here."

"You are searching for Alistair?"

"It will take a Grey Warden to end the blight."

Leliana nodded. "I know. We are looking for him too. He was seen in the mountains near Haven, sheltered with the dwarves there. They said that he was returning home."

"He is not here."

"You do not think... that he returned to Denerim, do you?"

Sten grunted, motioning for them to follow as he made his way up the hill to the ruins of the inn. Stepping though the empty doorway, he gestured to a pile of tables, a sort of child's makeshift fort. There were worn blankets there, bones of game and empty bottles.

"He has been gone three days, perhaps four."

"I don't suppose there's any sign of which way he went?" Anders poked his head round behind them, but Sten paid him no mind.

Leliana crouched, turning a bottle over in her hands. "I do not understand it. This was his home; it would make sense from him to be here."

"But his home could be Denerim, right?" Anders shrugged. "I mean, he's the king isn't he?"

She shook her head. "He never wanted to be. He was born here, raised in the Chantry, but he never..."

The bottled slipped from her fingers.

"They were right. He did go home." Slowly, Leliana rose to her feet. "I know where he is."

* * *

Ostagar.

When last they had passed this way, snow had drifted deep between the ruins. Stopping now at their shadowed edge, Leliana felt her boots shift beneath her, the earth squelching with the last remnants of melting slush. There had been a strange cleanness here before, some small comfort gained from things left unseen. But the remains of that camp, that battle, were now laid bare, baking beneath the returned sun.

Burying her mouth in her sleeve, she turned her face away. The mabari had been the only one of them to leap ahead, darting between the pillars with an eager bark as they approached. But even the hound's certainty could not bring her comfort.

Slowly they picked their way forward, Sten silent and scowling, Anders' would-be jests drying on his tongue. Leliana tried to keep her eyes fixed ahead, but found that she could not. She let them roam, let them linger over men and darkspawn, over those others who could not be named. In this, at least, they would be remembered.

She did not know the paths they took – could not recognize them as the same that they had walked when She had led them – but soon enough they came to the bridge. What she saw there stopped her where she stood.

He sat with his back to them, one leg dangling over the edge of that ruined span. So skinny he seemed, lank and filthy hair hanging long to brush against his shoulders. But in the waning light she caught a glimpse of his profile, the tilt of his chin somehow strong even beneath the ragged beard. The hound sat beside him, lowering its hand as he scratched it idly behind an ear.

No, he had not remained in Redcliff. Nor had he returned to Denerim, to the throne that by rights was his. He had come here, to sit beside the pyre that they had lain for his brother, to watch over the bones of his companions, the only family that he had ever known.

As if sensing her gaze, Alistair turned to look at them. There was no surprise, no recognition in those eyes, but she knew now that he was real. Here the Grey Wardens had made their final stand; here was the last of their number… and the world's only hope.


	8. Chapter 8

"And what of Morrigan?" Across the table, Wynne folded her arms.

They were gathered beneath an abandoned farmhouse, the cool air and rough-hewn walls having once been little more than a musty cellar. Now it functioned as a sort of command center, the surface between them cluttered with dripping candles and hand-drawn maps.

Trailing his finger along a curling bit of parchment, Zevran smiled. "This new look suits you, my dear. Arcane warrior, is it? How very Fourth Age."

Wynne slid the map from beneath his hands. Her expression remained calm, but there was a ragged edge to her breaths, the rise and fall of that ample bosom for once giving him cause to falter.

"Don't see why we're listenin' to anything he has to say." From his seat in the corner, Oghren snorted. "And if Morrigan's involved, you know it ain't good."

Shale nodded her assent. It had been with some effort that the golem had separated them – at Wynne's command, of course. He had little doubt that Shale would have been content to let them finish each other off. But Oghren had been tucked kicking under one arm, while Zevran found himself slung with great indignity over the opposite shoulder.

"On the contrary, my little friend, it is her _lack_ of involvement which seems cause for concern."

The dwarf lunged from his seat, but a stony hand fell upon his shoulder, holding him there almost absently.

"Explain yourself." Anora rose from her own chair, moving round to cast a glance at the maps.

A look from Wynne had cleared the room of a handful of soldiers and their dice, a few gentle words sending Erlina and the elves that had accompanied then trotting back through the tunnels. Only the Queen had lingered, somewhat spoiling the effect of the companions' reunion. Nathaniel, too, had remained, hovering at her side and yet not, the pair studiously avoiding each other's eyes. It had been amusing to watch, their scowls deepening in unison at being well and truly ignored.

Looking up at her now, Zevran grinned, leaving no doubt that she had his full attention.

Anora sniffed with disgust, but Wynne was watching him still, the weight of her gaze making him suddenly well too aware of the others.

"...I have reason to believe that our dear Morrigan knows more about this Blight than she was willing to reveal." Zevran let his head sink, surprised to find his nails digging into the already pitted wood. Perhaps he had come to offer defense, to beg their assistance, but suddenly the weight of either did not seem worth the words. "Even the matter of the Grey Wardens..."

"Yeh? But you already took care of that, didn'tcha?" Again, Oghren pushed to his feet but this time Shale made no move to stop him.

"You were there, were you not?"

"Damn right, I was."

Zevran raised his eyes, one hand straying unthinking to the scar at his neck. "Then tell me, my friend. What did you see?"

"I saw you grab 'er." He began limping forward, teetering on slow and deliberate steps.

"So you did."

"I saw you arguein'. Saw Her put a blade to your throat."

"Go on."

"I saw Her show you mercy. Stupidest thing She ever did."

Zevran flinched at that but found himself leaning forward, drawing a deep breath as the dwarf's hands gripped the table's edge. "And then?"

"And then She fell."

Zevran sank back in his chair, but Oghren was not yet through.

"You pulled Her from the fight, put Her back to the archdemon. Any soldier worth his salt woulda known better. It was selfish, cowardly... but that's what you don't understand. I didn't need to hear ya; mighta said some of the same things myself. But it didn't matter, not even to Her. _Especially_ not to Her. It stopped being about us the minute we signed up for this. She understood that more than anybody. She'd already made Her choice... and sometimes that's all it takes. But you took that away from Her."

He may not have heard Her words, but he struck near enough. "You are cruel, my friend... crueler than you realize."

"Nothin' cruel about it. And I ain't your friend."

"Oho? And how did you escape the city?"

Oghren grunted.

"It was a pillar that crushed your leg, yes? Carved in the Tevinter style? It was quite heavy, as I recall."

The dwarf's eyes narrowed. "Yeh. Right."

"Did you know that you belch even while unconscious? And the muttering! On and on about someone named... Felsi, was it?"

Oghren stroked his beard, lips twisting in an unwitting smile. "You did that?"

"I did not say that I enjoyed it."

The two stared at each other for a long moment.

"So it was an accident." Still Nathaniel stood against the wall, leaning back with folded arms. His expression had not changed; there was no question to that knife-edged whisper. "I was told a different tale."

Zevran crossed his legs, dandling an ankle on his knee. "You were told no tale at all. If I happened to imply—"

"_Imply_? 'Boasted' would be a nearer term."

Oghren had taken a step back and Zevran need not look to feel Wynne's gaze upon him. "I was discovered by the Crows. A tale spun from the seed of truth is easier to swallow than a lie, despite its bitter taste."

"But _I_ am no Crow."

"Yeh? And who are you exactly?" Oghren turned to squint into the shadowed corner.

Zevran tsked. "Ah, where are my manners? Allow me to present Nathaniel Howe."

"Howe?" His eyes narrowed further. "You Rendon Howe's little blighter?"

Nathaniel nodded once, still unmoving.

"So you can see how such a thing might be a rather sensitive subject, yes? That perhaps you might forgive my small part in your father's death in knowing that I had..." At last the words failed him, fluttering trapped within his chest.

He snorted. "The dwarf is right. You are a coward."

"Enough." Reaching cross the table, Wynne grabbed Zevran's wrist. She need say no more than that; the grip, her glare spoke clear enough. At least there seemed to be some small measure of pity beneath her disgust, a quiet nod accepting his remorse. But if she found that he was lying... "You said that you were seeking Morrigan. Why?"

Slowly taking back his arm, Zevran reached into his breast, pulling free the small book that rested beneath his leathers. He slid it cross the table without a word, watching as comprehension dawned – Wynne's immediate, Oghren's some moments behind.

"You stole her sodding diary?"

"Yes, yes, I am terrible." Zevran shook his head. "But Sh— there is mention of a deal, a ritual that Morrigan offered just before her departure. An alternative to the Wardens... to their death."

"Blood magic." He had left the page marked, Wynne's eyes quickly skimming the familiar scrawl. She shook her head. "Even were we to _consider_ this... it seems that it would still require a Warden."

"Which your Bann Teagan has gone to gather. And perhaps we shall happen upon our wayward Alistair, yes? But in order to end the Blight, a Warden must die." She noted his hesitation, he was certain of it. "So they believed and yet it seems this is not the case. And if there was one alternative..."

"There may be more." Raising her eyes to his, she sighed. "But you would hope to find what none in the Circle, not even the Wardens themselves know."

"Hope is for fools and children, my dear. You might say that I merely have nothing better to do."

Wynne smirked, those eyes weighing him still. "Perhaps one day we can afford to hope again."

* * *

He found her in the empty farmhouse. Even amongst the dust and cobwebs she stood regal, her back to him as she stared out through the cracked and filthy window. Nathaniel let his footfalls ring heavy, but she proudly held her stillness, only a slight twitch of her fingers belying the instinctive urge to smooth her skirts. So very stubborn.

"It is dangerous to be above ground."

Anora did not flinch as he moved to stand behind her, but neither did she turn round. He breathed deep, for the moment following her gaze out across the fields. But quickly did his eyes return, staying to a golden wheat that yet still lived, an arc of shoulder that had borne more than any trampled hill. Eight years was such a very long time.

"You will go with them."

"Is that a question? Or an order?"

Barking a laugh, Anora pushed past him, holding up a warding hand. "Spare me the wry wit."

"Apologies, Your Majesty." He dropped into a smirking bow. "I have had many women tell me that I am quite humorless."

The words had their desired effect. Anora's eyes narrowed, her failed attempt to school her features setting fury boiling anew. "Are you still such a child?"

"I doubt that I have ever been _a child_. Sometimes I feel as though I were born an old man."

"You were, once." Her expression softened. "Dour and serious, certainly. But I remember you... differently."

"It has been a long time."

They lapsed into silence, her head tilting as she studied him. "You _will_ go with them."

"An order, then?"

"Merely an assumption."

"Why?"

"For the same reason you did not strike down the elf." Her lips pursed, but she did not smile. "You had word of your father even before you undertook your search, did you not?"

Nathaniel nodded, letting his chin sink to his chest as he turned away. The window held no fascination, but the sky was nearly dark now, the broken glass throwing back a twisted mirror of his reflection. "I visited Highever."

It was Anora's turn to stand behind him, the silence inviting him to speak.

"All dead. Guards, servants, children. There were none left to bury them. Someone had tried – perhaps those from the outlying farms – but the work had been abandoned. Even I could not say that it truly matters now; even I could not bring myself to stay." He turned, regarding her over his shoulder. "But those were not the only rumors. They say my father was but the servant; that the true monster was his master."

Anora hissed, striding away across the room. "My father has only ever wanted what is best for me."

"And what better than a king?" He followed, blocking her path, forcing her to look up at him. "Though I suppose I should be grateful. Had I not been beneath your worth, it might be me lying dead with a knife in my back."

She reeled, jerking her arm away. "Perhaps 'child' was too kind a word."

"Anora."

But again she turned, refusing to meet his eyes. "You will go with them because it is a chance to set things right. Even when sword has shattered and shield has splintered, a man may still stand on the strength of his honor, the strength of his name." Even in the deepening shadow, a smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "A wise man once told me that."

He studied her profile, lit now against the window's failing light. "I am truly sorry for the loss of your father, the loss of your husband."

"Do not mock me, Nathaniel Howe."

Striding forward, he took her hand, bowing to brush a gentle kiss across her knuckles. "Never, Your Majesty."

Anora opened her mouth to protest, but he pushed aside the door and stepped into the night.


	9. Chapter 9

"How much longer must we wait?

Leliana emerged from the low tent to find Sten standing beyond the camp, staring toward the road as though he would move them forward by will alone. It had become his daily vigil, turning his eyes to distant Denerim, leaving the others no doubt as to his impatience.

"We cannot move him." Her own thoughts had had little time to stray behind the shadowed canvas at her back, but she supposed that she should be grateful for this moment of silence. They had managed to move beyond Ostagar, finding shelter in the woods surrounding the ruins, beyond the fearful stench stirred by the morning breeze. But it had not taken long to realize that Alistair could not continue.

Two days they had been here, two nights of sullen silences and shivering screams. She had done what she could. It did not seem to be enough.

Still the image of the bridge haunted, of that haggard figure outlined against the dying light. It had been slowly that she made her way toward him, her boots whispering on the broken stone as he turned away again. His armor was gone, the worn linens clinging with sweat and doing little to protect him from the cold. He had no weapon that she could see, but she spotted a jagged corner jutting from beneath him, the worn but fine edge of a familiar shield.

Crouching beside him, she followed his gaze out across the battlefield.

"You... I knew that you would come for me."

They remained in silence, words failing her once again. She had seen this expression once before, on the face of another, on that night that She had told her that She would die. Perhaps if Leliana had only argued...

Trembling at the memory, she lay a timid hand on his shoulder. "Alistair?"

He stiffened, tilting his head to look up at her. Comprehension dawned, his eyes widening as he sagged. "L-Leliana?"

"Hush. It is alright."

Something seemed to catch in his throat, a cry that could not be given voice. He collapsed against her chest, burying his face there as he heaved with dry and tearless sobs. Leliana ran a soothing hand along his back but he jerked away, leaning over to vomit into the abyss.

She noticed the bottle then, pried it gently from his fingers. It was half-empty, one sniff enough to set her eyes watering. If Alistair noticed as she set it aside, he did not protest; he had given himself over utterly to the spasms, curling in on himself as he heaved.

It had taken both Sten and Anders to help her pull him to his feet, to bear him between them from the bridge. It had fallen to Leliana to carry the shield, stooping to pick it up at Alistair's strangled cry. Though no one had asked, she found herself bowing her head. "It belonged to the Grey Warden Duncan."

Skinny as Alistair was, Sten could have lifted him with ease, but the Qunari stepped back once they were clear of the debris. He watched as Alistair staggered and fell to his knees, jerking him roughly to his feet with a growl. "He is drunk."

"You couldn't tell that by the smell?" Anders slipped an arm beneath the opposite shoulder.

Leliana sighed. "You can heal him, no?"

Looking down at Alistair, Anders shook his head. "If mages could heal _this_, I suspect we'd be a bit more popular. Or at least get invited to more parties."

They had made it as far as the trees, Sten's pride eventually giving way to practicality as he scooped Alistair into his arms. A small clearing had provided some refuge, the Qunari's worn tent shading Alistair from the pain of the morning's light.

Two days now and he had not emerged, barely acknowledging her attempts to feed him, ignoring utterly her invitations to bathe in the nearby stream. She had seen the effects of drink before. This was something else.

"Let me guess. He's impatient." Anders pushed through the trees, letting his pack slide from his shoulder as he smirked at Sten.

The big man grunted his assent.

"And you..." He strode over to Leliana, looking down at her with a quiet smile. "_You're_ worried."

"Where have you been?"

He shrugged. "I went back to Ostagar. Not the most pleasant place, but it doesn't seem like darkspawn are much interested in looting. And we could use a few comforts." Fishing in his pack, he handed her a small, wrapped package. "Here."

Leliana wrinkled her nose. "What is it?"

They were interrupted by a muffled cough at their backs.

"It's for him, actually." He nodded toward the tent. "Thought it might help."

With a sigh, Leliana turned away, casting Anders a last dubious glance over her shoulder. Scraps came trotting from the forest at her approach, returned from wherever the hound had spent the night. It lay down now in its accustomed spot beside the tent, resting its head on its paws to watch her.

"Good dog."

It growled.

Leliana pushed beneath the flap, pulling it quickly shut behind her lest he cry out at the light. But Alistair did not stir, did not move from where he lay curled and facing the wall.

"You are awake." She knelt at his back.

"Maker, I wish I wasn't."

"Hush." Pulling the flask from her belt, she leaned round and held the water to his lips.

"…Thanks."

"How do you feel?"

Alistair only laughed, the sound bitter and rasping. Hunching his shoulders, he curled tighter round himself.

It was as lucid as she had seen him, but the silence only seemed to thicken, the close, warm air setting her hair on end. She sat beside him, offering at least her quiet company, but she remembered again that other silence. This may well be her only chance.

"Alistair... what happened?"

"You were there. You saw."

"But you were not. In the end, you were not there."

He shuddered visibly. When she moved to lay a hand on his shoulder, he flinched away.

"I am sorry. I did not mean... I merely thought that it might help to talk about it."

"Talk about it?" He snorted.

"I had heard that you were in Haven. Is that where you went?"

"Haven..." He shook his head, lapsing into silence once more. But some new trembling seemed to take him, his shoulders sagging as the words spilled forth. "I had hired a ship to Rivain, given them the last of my coin, too. But when it came time to board, I-I couldn't do it. So I stayed in Denerim. I'd heard that Sh— that you left, returned to Redcliff. I almost thought of following, hiding with the army but I... I didn't want to be anywhere near Her. I didn't want to help – not Her, not _him_. It all gets a bit... a bit muddled after that. I'd sold my gloves and my helm." He shuddered. "_Cailin's_ helm. But I never wanted it, not the gold or the crown or... or any of it. I just wanted to forget."

Again, she offered her hand and this time he did not pull away.

"But then the darkspawn came. It was only dumb luck that I hadn't yet drank my sword. There wasn't much of a defense; I could have... done something. But I fought my way out and just kept going. I wasn't a Grey Warden anymore. It wasn't my problem, it was _his_. It was... Loghain's. _He'd_ come and save the city. Even if She was at his side, even if he died, he'd still be redeemed. He'd be a hero. And I didn't want to be there to see it."

"Alistair..."

"But Haven... Haven came later. I was near Lothering. There were refugees on the road and they told me about the battle... about what had happened. I-I don't know where I went from there. I lost the rest of my armor, my sword, everything but my boots... and Duncan's shield. I drank. I drank a lot. Maybe that's all it was, but I suddenly knew I had to get to Haven. You're right, I hadn't been there. It was all my fault. But maybe there was a chance that I could... that I could fix it." He sighed. "Mad, right?"

"It is not mad to want to right our wrongs."

"No, it was mad. I... I went after the ashes." He pinched shut his eyes. "I thought that maybe I could... that maybe I could bring Her back."

Leliana's breath caught.

"I couldn't even find the temple door. Guess I wouldn't have made it very far even if I did."

"Oh, you poor dear."

"Right. Poor me. I didn't want to be a templar, couldn't stomach being a prince, gave up being a Grey Warden. Maker, even a _warrior_ has a sword. I'm just poor Alistair. Alistair the drunk, Alistair who ran away." Tilting his head, he looked back at her with narrowed eyes. "Don't pity me. Maybe I've finally found something I'm good at."

"You are no such thing." She scooted closer, grabbing him forcibly by the shoulder to roll him onto his back. "And you cannot give up being a Grey Warden. It is in your blood."

"Yeah. Don't remind me."

Leliana sighed. "It is more than that. The Blight rages on and you have the power to stop it. Do you truly feel nothing?"

His lips twisted.

"There? You see? You know that I am right."

"What would you have me do? She was always the one who… She always just knew."

"Perhaps she did. But you will too, I think. When the time comes." Lowering her head, Leliana spotted the tiny package lying forgotten in her hand. Unfolding the wrappings, her eyes went wide. In all of the stories she had told, of the Warden, the Blight, the companions … Anders had remembered.

"What?" Alistair was watching her with a curious scowl. "What are you smiling about?"

She showed him her hand.

"Is that—?"

"No." Pulling it away, she smirked. "You will get out of this hole, Alistair Theirin. You will go down to the stream and – by all that is blessed in the Maker's sight – you will bathe yourself. Yes?"

He pushed himself up onto his elbows, considering. "And then?"

Bringing the unwrapped wedge of cheese to her nose, Leliana took a deep sniff. "And then we will speak of what comes next."


	10. Chapter 10

"Dwarf. What do you see?"

From his perch on Shale's shoulder, Oghren grunted. "A house. Might be the one. I dunno."

Nathaniel quirked a brow. "Haven't you been here before?"

"I was drunk."

"Of course you were."

"Hey! Some of my proudest moments have been drunk. An' well... some of the least proud, too, I'll give ya that. But we were fightin' a dragon. I was distracted." He strained to look down across the hills, but Shale braced a hand against his chest.

"If the Dwarf wishes to break his neck, I would be happy to assist."

Nathaniel slipped a spyglass from his belt and peered down into the clearing below.

"Coulda told me you had that, y'know."

"You did not ask." After a moment he shook his head and stowed the glass away. "It is a simple hut. And it appears to be abandoned."

"No sign of Morrigan?"

"How am I to know that? Perhaps if our _guide_would tell us what it is that we're looking for..." He cast a pointed glance behind them, to the figure laying stretched upon the hillside.

Zevran feigned a yawn but made no move to rise.

With a scowl, Nathaniel turned a stalked toward him, making as if to slip a boot beneath the elf's ribs. But Zevran caught his ankle, holding him there as he opened a lazy eye.

"Hm?"

"I believe we are here."

"Oh? And where else would we be?"

Nathaniel snorted. "There is a clearing over the next ridge, a small building. I assume it is the place you described?"

"There are not many who would call the Wilds home. Our Morrigan was... unique."

"We should proceed cautiously."

Zevran pushed himself onto his elbows. "You know, my friend, for a wandering scoundrel, you have a rather poor sense of adventure."

With a snort, Nathaniel offered him a hand and helped him to his feet. "I'm no scoundrel."

"Ah, but 'vagabond' lacks that certain noble ring." Moving to the ridge, Zevran peered through the offered glass. "At least you picked a spot with decent sun."

Nathaniel sighed. "Is it the one that you remember?"

"Oh, yes."

"And this Morrigan... You suspect that she simply returned home? That we need simply knock on her door?"

"Where Morrigan is concerned, my friend, 'simple' is a word that rarely applies." With a shrug, he tossed the glass over his shoulder, starting away down the hill as Nathaniel reached out to snatch it from the air.

"Andraste's blood! He's going to get us all killed."

Beside him, Oghren chuckled. "He'll do his soddin' best."

With a whispered growl, Nathaniel jogged down the path, falling into step beside the elf.

Zevran watched him from the corner of his eye. "You did not have to come, my friend." He smirked. "But I am guessing it was the queen's idea, yes?"

"I go where I please."

"I have no doubt. You seemed particularly pleased to leave her side, and as quickly as possible."

"Anora can be... insufferable."

Zevran chuckled at that. "The best kind of woman, in my experience."

"To the Void with your _experience_."

He clucked his tongue. "Touchy. But you were right to leave. It will make your reunion all the sweeter."

They sank into guarded silence as the path began to level, opening onto a familiar clearing nestled in the swamp. Shale stopped behind them, glancing round with narrowed eyes. With a grunt, she lowered Oghren to the ground. "I do not like this."

"Heh. You don't like anythin'."

"And the Dwarf is as blind as he is heavy."

"Blind? I'm not— Ooh." Unslinging the axe from his back, Oghren moved to Zevran's side. "Hey, elf. You notice anythin' wrong here?"

Looking from the hut to the still waters of the swamp, Zevran shook his head.

"Last time we were here... didn't we leave a...?"

"Ah. A rather large and very dead dragon, yes?"

"Yeh. So where is it?"

"A dragon." Nathaniel's scowl deepened as a hand strayed to his bow.

"Flemeth. Morrigan's mother. I may have... neglected to mention her."

"Makes her daughter look like a bloody paragon."

Zevran chuckled. "Oh, I doubt it. But if your paragons dressed like _that_, I might have to visit Orzammar more often."

"Mages." Shale snorted. "We will find nothing but treachery."

"You are still afraid of magic, my dear Shale? I should think one of your impressive... stoniness would be all but immune to fear."

"I am not afraid. But if this does not end with crushing the Swamp Witch into a fine paste, I fail to see the point."

"I agree." Nathaniel folded his arms. "We should be searching for the Warden. Just because some dead woman's diary—"

Zevran took a step forward, but Oghren had already moved between them, pressing the flat of his axe to the elf's chest to halt him. It was to Nathaniel that he looked. "If you'da known Her, you wouldn't be so quick to talk." With a wistful chuckle, he lowered the axe and stroked his beard. "She always did have the best ideas."

"Until the last."

Zevran would have lunged then, but a crash echoed across the clearing. He turned, watching as the worn wooden door thundered against its hinges. The crash came again, as though some great beast were trapped within.

Nathaniel drew his bow, Zevran his blades and Oghren took up his axe between them. "Hut's too small for a dragon... right?"

Behind them Shale snorted, but she made no move to go closer.

They approached as one, slowly, cautiously. But the sound did not come again. Zevran slipped to one side of the door, Nathaniel taking position on the other.

Looking between them, Oghren scowled. "Oh, no ya don't."

Zevran smirked, lowering his voice to a whispered hiss. "Maybe you will be fortunate, my friend. Maybe you are so short that the dragon will not notice you."

"Just be quick about it." Nathaniel sighted along his shaft, never taking his eyes from the door.

"Bloody, nug-lovin'—"

Oghren kicked as hard as he could, leaping aside as the door flew inward. But he wasn't quick enough. A shadowed flurry of fur and claws lunged from the hut, bowling him over to topple in the dirt. The dwarf growled, throwing the thing off of him, but he had lost his axe, turning to face it barehanded as it righted itself.

The mabari stopped. It cocked its head, studying the dusty dwarf. After a moment, one ear unflattened quizzically.

"Well, I'll be a... _Scraps_?"

Nathaniel bent to help the dwarf to his feet, but it was to Zevran that the hound looked now. It moved forward slowly, stretching out its neck to give his hand a hesitant sniff. It had always been wary of him, its demeanor softening only slightly when She had begun taking him to her bed. Perhaps there was something familiar in the scent that reached it now, recalling some shared memory. Meeting his eyes, it gave his fingers a gentle lick.

Shale snorted. "All of the beasts look alike. How do we know that this is the same?"

The mabari tilted its head and trotted over to lift its leg on the golem's feet.

"Gah!"

It dodged her kick with ease, but at the sight of Shale staggering it stopped to peer up at her with panting amusement.

"That's 'im alright." Oghren chortled. "Oh come on, ya big lumox. He didn't get any on ya. I've spilled more on my own feet."

"I have no doubt."

He scratched at his beard. "What's he doing all the way out here, I wonder. And locked in there? Ya think he was looking for Morrigan too?"

"The woman wronged its master." Nathaniel stuck his head round the doorframe, peering into the narrow space within. "They say that mabari are intelligent, but I doubt he is as clever as that."

Scraps whined.

Finding nothing, Nathaniel cast a glare at Zevran over his shoulder. "It seems your witch is not in. I don't suppose you have another guess as to where she might be?"

* * *

She came over him like fever. At first he thought it merely another tremor, the spasms in his legs jerking him from this strange half-sleep. They would pass – they always passed – and he could slip away again. But this movement was new, something outside himself, an intruding warmth sliding cross his knees. Alistair opened his eyes.

The vision was not one that he'd expected. So many times She had come for him with Her accusing stares or – Maker help him – Her soft and silent tears. When next he woke it would be Leliana watching over him, her gentle ministrations stirring guilt anew. Had someone told him a year ago that _this_ particular dream would bring _relief_, he would have called them mad.

It was Morrigan that leaned over him now, tilting her head as she sneered. "You are a fool."

"Obviously." Alistair groaned, shifting as he willed sleep to take him again.

But she grabbed his chin, forcing him to look up at her. Maker, it actually _hurt_. "Your Warden was a fool."

"Go away."

"No."

Alistair managed to slide from beneath her, curling onto his side to bury his head in his arms. He stared at the canvas. If he could not slip away again, he would will himself awake.

"Alistair. Stop being a child."

"If you're just here to insult me, why didn't She come herself? Nothing ever stopped Her before."

"She...?" The vision paused. "The Warden. Perhaps you are truly as mad as Sten claims."

"Great. You've been talking to Sten. Even my subconscious doesn't believe I'm sane."

Morrigan growled, nails digging into his side to roll him onto his back. Alistair resisted, curling tighter, forcing her to lean round and lower her face to his. Her eyes narrowed. "You are _both_fools. So intent on death that you would cling to it despite all sense."

"La-la-la not listening."

Rising to her feet, she gave him a kick. "She need not have died. When the time comes, do not make the same mistake." With that, she vanished beneath the tent's flap and into the night.

Alistair could not say how long it was before he woke. He had the sudden sensation of plummeting, found his cheek pressed to cold and sodden blankets as his eyes flew open. It was with great pain that he pushed himself to his feet, still dizzied by the dream as he stumbled out of the tent. The cool air provided some relief, left him wondering what he'd truly expected to find. Only the mabari remained awake, watching him across the fire with narrowed eyes.


	11. Chapter 11

"Your Majesty?"

Anora glanced up from her maps to find Wynne ducking through the end of the tunnel. She could not say how long she had been sitting at this table, lost to the carefully scrawled lines, to the mismatched stones that represented their forces and the forces of the enemy. Beside her father's map tables in the palace, it would be a pale thing indeed. But this cellar was her war room now, this creaking stool her throne.

"You will forgive me if I don't feel particularly majestic."

The old woman chuckled. "Humor serves us well in times such as these." She sank into the opposite chair without invitation.

Resting her elbows on the table, Anora brushed a fallen strand of hair from her eyes. "In times such as these, I would gladly give half the kingdom for a hot bath."

"That, I very much doubt. But we have a kingdom to win before you trade it away."

"Your eagerness is surprising."

"Is it?" Wynne slid a pile of the small, dark stones aside, picking up the large, flat river rock at their center. Someone had taken the time to paint a crude dragon on one side. She turned it round in her hands.

"Most women your age would be practicing their needlework, surrounded by overfed grandchildren."

"A strange sentiment, coming from you."

"I merely meant that you seem to have the temperament."

The old mage smiled, but her eyes grew distant. "Perhaps there are other uses for such a thing."

"Like with the Warden? You were the only one who could make her see reason, as I recall."

Wynne scowled.

"You have no children of your own, I hear. But you and she were close, were you not?"

"The templars grow restless."

Anora blinked at the sudden change of direction, but something in the other woman's expression warned her against forcing the issue. She sighed. "I assume you have not been able to convince them to send to the Tower for aid?"

The delegation had arrived less than a week ago, a spare half dozen men, but rested and well-armed. Any thought of aid had quickly diminished, though. They were here merely to reclaim the surviving mages that had marched with the Warden's army. It made been a miracle that Wynne had convinced them to remain as long as they had, but not a man among them had yet raised a blade to help in their raids.

"The Tower remains sealed, recovering still from problems of its own, they say."

Anora slammed a fist down on the table. She jumped with surprise at herself, but anger numbed the pain. "The _realm's_ problems are more important. What we face here threatens the entire world!"

Still the mage remained calm, nodding slowly. "Zeal may be a powerful weapon, but also a heavy weight. It is Ser Cullen that leads them. He suffered more than most under Uldred's treachery and will be the most difficult to convince."

Anora, rested her head in her hand. "Is there no good news?"

"There is, in fact. Three more survivors arrived last night."

She looked up. "More?"

There had been a steady trickle of them even before she herself had arrived, some discovered by their people, others arriving on their own. Anyone surviving this long within the city walls must be blessed by the Maker indeed. Though, if rumor was to be believed, that was not the only hand at work.

"Your scouts?"

Wynne shook her head. "It is the same as before. One woman claims the aid of a spirit, while her companion names only a man."

"A spirit?" Anora snorted.

Tapping a finger on the table, Wynne smirked. "Do not be so quick to scoff, Your Highness." She paused, sitting back with a troubled expression.

"What is it?"

"Ah, I suppose we cannot call you 'Your Highness' either, seeing that we are underground."

She could not help but laugh. "Then it seems you must make do with calling me Anora."

The mage nodded deeply. "Well then, Anora—"

"Wynne!" There was a crash above them, the trap door to the farmhouse above suddenly thrown wide. A familiar face appeared in the gap, red-cheeked and breathless. At the sight of the mage, Shianni's eyes widened with relief. "Wynne! Come quickly!"

Wynne spared Anora only a brief look, darting for the stairs with a quickness that belied her years. Casting one more solemn glance at the maps, Anora followed.

The farmhouse was empty as it had always been, but there was commotion now near the door, two more elves joining Shianni as she bent over the groaning figure at their center. Another elf, he winced as she grabbed his chin, her expression panicked but insistent as she forced his eyes to focus on her face.

"Soris! Hold on!"

Wynne knelt, shouldering her firmly aside. There was a deep wound in the boy's side, his pale and trembling fingers doing what they could to staunch the flow of his own blood. Wynne forced them away, replacing them with her own. "We are fortunate. The blade struck to the side, it did not tear anything that cannot be replaced." Her hands began to glow and the boy grunted.

Beside her, Shianni sagged with relief. "I... I almost worried that you didn't do healing anymore."

"New abilities do not replace the old."

The girl stared at her for a moment more, watching the wet, red pool spread round her armored knees. It was a strange thing to see a mage so dressed, Anora had to agree. But the boy was quieting now.

"Soris." Shianni leaned close. "How did this happen?"

"There was... a man. I tried to help... but we were discovered. Darkspawn. He stuck me and ran."

"Bloody _shems_. He gutted you and left you behind!"

He nodded, eyes straying to the door. "But then he came."

There was no one that Anora could see, so she stepped to the window for a closer look. A figure stood some distance beyond the house, a deeper shadow against the night's dark. She could make out little more than broad shoulders and a deep hood, but she had the sudden feeling that the figure was watching her in turn, only her, as if waiting to see what she would do.

Without a glance for the others, she stepped into the night. They were too distracted to call after her.

"You there."

The stranger did not stir at her approach, but still she sensed that each of her steps was being weighed, measured. She should be afraid, but there was hesitance here now that was greater than her own.

"You've been rescuing our people. Why?"

The figure nodded, the only sound a heavy sigh. Anora stopped. The chill had vanished, replaced by some deeper dread. After a moment, it spoke, the voice deep and expressionless.

"It was the elves that woke me. Some weeks ago as you would measure them. They were servants, bound to their master as all servants are, obedience in exchange for protection. But he abandoned them, bound them in the courtyard of his estate, an offering for the darkspawn while he and his family escaped though hidden doors. I could not abide their suffering."

Each word fell upon her ears like cold lead. Anora took a slow step forward but could not bring her tongue to form the words.

"This body lay nearby. It was strong, capable. A darkspawn arrow had robbed it of breath." Its hand strayed to its right breast, fingers playing over the jagged gash just visible in the plate beneath the cloak. "But I need none."

She exhaled in a rush, realized that she had been holding her breath. "...Who are you?"

With stiff and pained motions, the figure lowered its hood. Anora bit back a gasp, her knees threatening to desert her, but she held herself straight and still as he had taught her. Even in the dim light of the moon, she could see that his skin was more pallid, the shadows beneath his eyes deeper than she remembered. They narrowed as they watched her, some new confusion overshadowing the unmistakable glint of proud and quiet affection. So strong those features, etched by the deep lines of old accustomed scowls. Only she had ever seen the knowing smiles that they hid.

It was the face of a dead man, the face of her father.

"I am Justice."


	12. Chapter 12

"Maker's breath, I could use a drink." Alistair rested hands on his knees as he bent to catch his breath.

Stopping beside him, Leliana lay a reassuring hand on his arm. Sten had set a hard pace these past few days; even Anders' complaints had lost their jesting tone. But Alistair had never put words to his groans and stumbles; he marched with the heavy steps of a man on his way to the gallows. He had hardly eaten since the cheese had run out – despite Anders' improving skill at charring the various small creatures that crossed their path – and she knew that he had not been sleeping.

She had found him awake before the dawn again that day, sitting beside the dying fire with only the mabari for company. Scraps had growled as she stirred and Leliana had the strange feeling that she was interrupting some private moment. But "dreams" was all that Alistair would say.

Sten continued up the path past them without a backward glance, turning only when they failed to follow. He glared at Anders. "You are certain there is no cure?"

The mage shrugged. "More drink maybe. Hair of the dog and all that."

"Fine." The Qunari reached into his pack, striding forward to shove a familiar bottle into Alistair's hands. "Drink."

"No!" He had blinked down at it uncomprehending, but Leliana snatched it away. She put herself between them. "Why would you _save_ that?"

Sten arched a brow. "It can be used for pain. For wounds." He looked down at Alistair, still breathing deeply. "If it calms him and keeps him silent until we reach the archdemon..."

"You know, he might have a point."

Leliana whirled on Anders with a furious glare.

He backed up a step, holding up his hands. "Okay. Sorry. Forget I said anything."

"I only meant water." The sullen mumble came from somewhere behind her, but Leliana did not hear.

Turning back to the Qunari, she poked a finger against his chest. "You are going to kill him!"

"He is the last Grey Warden. Death is his duty."

"That or vomiting on the archdemon's feet." Anders shrugged.

"I have seen men like him. Among the _Tal'Vashoth_. Among the _bas_. They are weak. They turn to drink to help them bear their burdens. I would not have it so, but this may ease the weight of what comes."

"So this is – what? – _ton idee de compassion_?"

"Uh oh. Now she's angry."

"Anders. Shut up."

Alistair slunk away from the others, sinking onto a nearby stone to pull his waterskin from his belt. "Right. Fine. No one listens to me."

"We only just found him! And already you want to see him dead!"

"I _want_ nothing. It is what must be done."

Alistair turned his head from the argument, staring into the trees beside the path. After a moment he rose, taking a slow step beneath the leaves.

Spotting him from the corner of her eye, Leliana spun. "And where do you think you are going?" She sighed. "Alistair. I am sorry, I—"

He glanced over his shoulder, putting a finger to his lips. "There's someone out there."

"No doubt the bard's shouting has brought the darkspawn down upon us." Sten scowled, drawing the blade from his back as he moved to stand beside them.

Leliana could not help but flush as she unslung her bow. "You deserved it."

"Perhaps."

Nocking an arrow, she moved ahead of the others, stepping light and quick over the low brush. It was reckless, she knew, the sudden rush of warm guilt weighing her steps even as she shifted onto her toes. Sten was right, in his way. This was not a hero's journey; maybe it had never been. Alistair would face the archdemon and Alistair would die. Even in the happiest of endings, he would be the one to lose. Perhaps the Qunari's plan had been a mercy after all.

So lost in thought was she, that she did not see the other arrow until its tip danced before her eyes. It quivered unloosed, the shaft held stiff before her as she quickly leveled her own beside it. The other archer stood taller, forcing her to angle her bow upward. They held there, a strange mirror of one another, neither daring to breathe.

After a moment, the stranger sniffed, tilting his head to shake a strand of dark hair from his eyes. It was not a pretty face, lined by deep scowls and heavy-lidded eyes, but there was a strength and nobility to those features that may have bordered on handsome.

"Do not move, my dear. We have you surrounded." The voice at her back was familiar, the laugh blooming in her throat as leanly-muscled arms wrapped round her waist from behind. Zevran rested his chin on her shoulder as he tsked into her ear. "But do not tempt our sour Lord Howe. I fear he has a wicked temper."

"Only when it comes to you." Lowering his bow, the scowling man smirked and spared Leliana a nod.

She turned round, lowering her own weapon as she pulled Zevran into an almost proper one-armed hug. "It is good to see you." Pulling back, she studied him, remembering suddenly the last time they had been together. It had been just before they marched into the city, just before _She_ had...

Zevran's smiled faltered, his eyes darting away. But there was a crash behind them as Shale pushed through the underbrush with Oghren clinging to her back. Leliana's eyes widened at that and Shale followed her gaze.

"Not a word, Sister."

Leliana giggled. "I said nothing."

There was a commotion now from the other direction, Anders stooping to pull pricklers from his robes as he stumbled over a bush. "I suppose I deserved that. I run off and worry you, you run off and worry me—" Glancing up, he realized that they were not alone. His eyes grew wider by turns as they swept over the odd party, stopping last on the archer. He dropped into a mocking bow. "My lord."

"Do I know you?"

"No, but only a lord glowers like that."

Howe turned away with an exasperated sigh.

Sten appeared behind Anders, dragging Alistair along by the sleeve. Finding the woods full of staring eyes, he scowled. "He vomited again."

"Sorry about the boots."

Zevran's brows shot up as he cursed beneath his breath. "...Alistair?"

"Oh, great." Alistair did his best to stand straight, sheathing his borrowed sword on the second try.

There was a sudden rumble at his feet, the mabari laying back its ear to growl. Its gaze was fixed across the narrow space... to the second hound standing beside Shale.

"Andraste's grace!" Leliana's hand went to her mouth. The two beasts looked exactly alike. The other had laid back its ears as well, crouching low as they began to circle each other.

"Scraps!" She and Oghren shouted in the same instant.

But the dogs paid no heed. The second lunged, but Alistair's slipped neatly aside. It held its shoulders stiff and straight, the rumble in its throat a warning. The other was for the moment perplexed, hesitating despite the fury foaming at its jaw. If she did not know better, Leliana might guess that the beast sounded... offended.

They stared a moment longer. Finally, Alistair's hound bowed its head, the motion continuing until its back was bent into an impossible arch, the air around it shivering and shimmering. It grew tall and long as they watched, legs stretching into arms, claws curling into fingers. When at last the light faded, a woman remained, a familiar sneer twisting her features as she looked down at the true hound. "'Imposter,' am I?"

Scraps whined.

"Some would take it for flattery. I have been lesser beasts." She raised her head, acknowledging the rest of them. That gaze lingered last on Alistair. Morrigan smiled.

"Maker's— You know what? No." There was no clumsiness now as he drew his blade, leveling it at the witch's throat.

Morrigan only arched a brow. "You did not enjoy our talks beside the fire? My visits to your tent?"

"Shut up!"

Sten moved to stand beside him. "That hound has been with me since Denerim."

"And you may thank me for saving your life." She nodded. "The Warden and I... had our disagreements, but I will admit that I was curious to see how it ended."

"Curious?" It was Zevran who spoke now, the word hanging heavy.

Morrigan's eyes narrowed as she studied him. "...Then you know. Know that the Warden's death was Her own folly, that it could have all been avoided."

Leliana gaped. She did not know what they spoke of – the Warden had only told her the means of an archdemon's end. But the pain on the elf's features left little doubt that he believed the witch's words, sent a strange hope swelling in Leliana's chest. "Can it still?"

"That depends on Alistair." She looked to him with a strange and piercing curiosity. "But I cannot raise the dead."

"What are you talking about? What is she talking about?" He lowered the blade.

Looking to the assembled party, Morrigan scowled. "I would prefer to discuss this elsewhere."

"Modesty? From you?" Zevran folded his arms.

"Be silent, elf." She moved to Alistair's side, nodding to the trees as she lay a hand on his arm.

"Don't touch me!"

"We waste time here." Sten stepped between them. There was something protective in his stance, but Leliana knew better than to think it was for Alistair's benefit. "Come if you can offer help, but find your tongue on the way."

Morrigan looked as though she might retort, but she subsided with a sigh. "To Denerim, then."

Zevran nodded. "Our dear Wynne awaits us there, as does the Queen."

"Meddling old cat." Morrigan sneered.

"Backstabbing bitch," Alistair muttered in the same instant.

The two stared at each other for a long moment.

Shaking his head, Alistair stalked away, making for the path. "I hate you so much."


	13. Chapter 13

Anora wondered – not for the first time – how she had convinced him to stay. Not _him,_ she reminded herself, _it_. The spirit's explanation had been a simple one: it retained the memories of its host, all that he had ever been. It knew her as he had in life, better than anyone in this world. For two nights she had slept on that, troubled and tossing, and for two nights he had arrived at dusk, watching her wordlessly through the farmhouse window. She knew then what she must do.

It would mean awkwardness and it would mean pain, but Ferelden had its general once more.

She watched him now as he leaned over the map table, watched the stone armies slide beneath the gnarled fingers of a master. His deep cowl hung low over his face.

"There is little enough light... spirit." Still she was unsure how to address him; the word always seemed to stick in her throat. "Why do you remain hooded?"

Justice raised his head, looking to where she sat with shadowed eyes. "For your benefit."

"Are all spirits such fools?"

He paused. After a long moment, his hands moved to the hood, letting it fall against his back. "This form causes you discomfort."

"And you think to protect me at the expense of your own. Sit."

"I do not require... comfort." But he sat.

They fell into silence again, studying the terrain between them from opposite ends of the table. Still he avoided her eyes, but Anora found her own straying inexorably upward, watching the familiar brow crease in troubled concentration. It was not often that she had seen uncertainty on her father's face. This was something new.

"We have been raiding on the north side." She slid a pair of white pebbles across the map. "Harrying the walls in small parties."

"A frontal assault would have more merit. We are not thieves."

Anora's eyes narrowed. The words had a familiar ring of steel-edged certainty. The Spirit spoke often of what was just, what was noble, seemingly driven to speak of it to the exclusion of all else. Some whispered that her father had been just as blinded by his cause. It was... unsettling to wonder where one ended and the other began. "We are also small in number."

He sat stiffly back in the chair, meeting her gaze at last. Anora could not help but flinch, wondering again if he was no longer the man she had thought, no longer the man she needed. He wasn't, she reminded herself. Her father was dead.

"Surely you can see that."

He nodded. She tried not to notice the way the loose skin twitched round his chin. "But I find myself troubled." The tone left no doubt that this was a new sensation.

"About?"

"Are not the darkspawn fighting for survival, the same as you?"

Not "we," she noted. Anora scowled. "You cannot be serious."

"They are a cancer in the heart of this world, there is no doubt. But I... this body..."

She pinched shut her eyes. For a moment he was a tired old man, a stranger that she had glimpsed only once before. It had been frightening, seeing him sink to his knees before the Warden, defeated in single combat by a self-righteous girl. And yet she would have gone to him as she nearly had then, thrown her arms around him as she had not done in many years.

"The things that this body has done..."

So that was it. He did not doubt their cause. But this spirit, this untainted force of justice, found himself trapped with a past that he could not stomach. Anora felt a twisting in her gut. "…He did for the good of Ferelden."

"You defend him." The spirit did not look surprised, merely sad. "I... remember this. You did it once before."

"In the Landsmeet, yes."

The smile was small, a tautness tugging at those sallow cheeks. "So proud he was. He would have thanked you, if he could."

"And yet you wouldn't."

"No."

"Can you choose another... host?" "Body," she had nearly said, but the word died on her tongue. Again, she was thinking of the Warden. No doubt the spirit would have found the girl more suitable and them both the happier for it. Her father had earned his rest.

"You are angry."

She was on her feet, she realized, the weight of the spirit's gaze balling her fists at her sides. There was no emotion there, no judgment, merely a cold curiosity. "I—"

"My Queen!" The trapdoor above was thrown back. She could not put a name to the soldier, but there was no doubting his excitement. "Lord Howe has returned!"

Something inside her fluttered, but Anora chided herself as she turned on her heel and made for the stairs. Nathaniel had gone hunting a witch. Better that the scouts spy Bann Teagan, riding with a host of Orlesian Wardens at his back. She dimly wondered what Justice would think of that; certainly her father would have loathed the idea. But Wynne had sent the riders north long before Anora's arrival and there had been no word of them since.

Justice followed, pulling his hood up again as they crossed the fields, making for the copse of trees nearest the road. It was a large party, the soldier who had summoned them explained. It would not do to draw attention in the open.

They were already waiting when Anora arrived, Wynne and the scouts and the strangers. She would have to speak to the men about how they passed information – she was their Queen, after all – but the thought was a fleeting one. Nathaniel had returned with the elf and the dwarf and the golem still beside him, adding to their number a Qunari, a dog, a red-haired archer, a mage, a sneering wildling and a haggard beggar. It was to this last that Wynne moved, taking his chin forcibly in her hand as she brushed lank and filthy hair from his eyes.

"Ow."

Healing light bloomed from her fingertips, her free hand prodding his chest as she studied him. After a long moment, she pulled him into a fierce hug.

The elf chuckled. "No such greeting for me?"

They ignored him, the beggar's eyes falling closed as he sagged against the old woman. "The armor is... well, _wow_."

Wynne pulled back with a smirk. "Be careful where you put your eyes, young man."

Anora gaped. This stinking, filthy man looked as though he could barely lift a sword, and yet only months ago he had stood before the Landsmeet, as proud and resplendent as Cailan had ever been. How it had galled to see him in that armor, nearly as bitter as his brazen claim to her throne. He would not stand so proud without his Warden by his side, she had told herself, and it seemed she'd had the truth of it. The armor was gone, the Warden was gone… and with them most of the man.

But he was watching her now with narrowed eyes. Alistair the bastard, Alistair the last Grey Warden.

She barely noticed as Nathaniel moved to her side, inclining his head in an only mildly insolent nod. "Your Highness."

"So this is the Queen, is it?" The man who stepped forward was a mage by his robes, his smile near as mocking as Nathaniel's smirk. Light danced between his fingers as he bowed, offering up his palm to reveal the conjured likeness of a flaming rose.

Anora arched a brow.

"You're just as pretty as Nathaniel said. He went on and on..."

"I said no such thing."

"Ah, but you were thinking it. I can tell." He tapped the side of his head with his free hand. "Magic and all that."

Anora cast Nathaniel a dubious glance, but the mage cursed then, the light in his hand winking out. "Oh, sh—!" He sank to his knees, cradling the hand as though burned.

"Stop right there!" Swords were drawn behind them, armor clanking as Ser Cullen and his templars burst through the trees. At least he showed her some deference, his nod hasty as he sneered down at the mage. "This man is a dangerous apostate, Your Majesty."

"Oh, not this again."

Cullen glared. "Three good men were sent after you, mage. Three good men died."

Even from his knees, the man managed a shrug, but strangely it was to the red-haired woman that he looked. "I didn't do it."

"Then who did?"

"The darkspawn. I thought that would be obvious."

"Or simply convenient." Cullen strode forward, grabbing him roughly by the collar. Two of the other templars moved to either side, taking the man beneath the arms. "This mage has escaped seven times, Your Majesty. By your leave..."

The templars wanted mages, mages that she desperately needed. The man seemed harmless enough, but if this would appease them... Anora nodded. "Do with him what you will."

Fear entered the man's eyes at last, his legs dragging across the ground as he struggled against the templars. His gaze swung wild, passing over the red-haired woman's protests, to fix at last upon Alistair. "Warden!"

He blinked.

"Warden! Do that... thing. The..." He seemed to be searching for the words. "...The Right of Conscription! You can stop this."

But Alistair remained expressionless, almost uncomprehending, watching as the templars dragged the man away.

"What will they do with him?" The woman had taken half a step forward, as though she would give chase.

Beside her, Wynne folded her arms. "Return him to the Tower. They would not risk the Rite of Tranquility, not here." But there was doubt in her voice.

"It is... not right." The whisper sent a shiver up Anora's spine as it always did, but she was not the only one to start in surprise. The figure at her back turned his shadowed cowl to follow the mage's shouts down across the hills.

"Who is that?" Alistair's hands clenched at his sides, his eyes locking to the hooded spirit. Fear and exhaustion seemed to come over him in waves, his entire body trembling as he reached clumsily for his sword. His voice broke. "_Who is that?_Show yourself!"

"Alistair..." The word was a warning, Wynne stepping in front of him, but he pushed past her.

"No... no..." The blade shook before him. He seemed to notice Anora then, sneering as she put herself between them. "No, you don't get to... Not him."

She felt movement at her back, saw Alistair stagger as Justice lowered his hood. "Hello, Alistair."

With a final strangled cry, the hope of Ferelden swooned and collapsed into a crumpled heap at Anora's feet.


	14. Chapter 14

"Alistair." Wynne settled on the edge of his cot.

There were half a dozen others nearby, pallets and makeshift beds lining the walls of the tunnel's wide bend. Many such hollows they had discovered in the warrens beyond the city, fitting soldiers and survivors where they could, but never camping more than a handful in one spot. Some of these passages would have been built by the darkspawn themselves. If they were discovered...

Alistair lay on his back, staring toward the ceiling, one arm draped across his forehead. "I said I'm fine."

"You are not." She pushed his arm aside, probing gentle fingers against his temples. "You're exhausted, dehydrated, under nourished. And you fainted."

"Maker's breath, don't remind me."

In truth, he was physically little worse than the rest of the men, and Maker knew she had seen enough on that score. Wynne had even petitioned Ser Cullen to allow Anders to assist her – she remembered the young man from the Tower, recalled that he had some skill in healing – but the Templar had remained firm. They were holding him in the tunnel that they had claimed for their own and, by the curses that had echoed as she passed, he was doing little to help his cause. Cullen had not explicitly mentioned the Rite of Tranquility, but it would not be long before he decided that he could not spare a man to dampen the apostate's magics at all times.

She turned her attention back to Alistair. "Leliana says you haven't been sleeping."

He sighed, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, that happens when you have a creepy witch swooping in to haunt your dreams."

"Morrigan." She had little doubt as to what the woman wanted – still she could see the Warden's words scrawled across the page, recounting that strange offer – and she approved of her methods even less. "They've stopped?"

"Those? Yeah."

"But not the archdemon."

Alistair barked a laugh. "The archdemon...? Those never go away, not really. All part of the Grey Warden thing. But now – now they're almost a relief. Because at least _She's_ not there."

They were no longer speaking of Morrigan. Wynne sighed.

"I can feel it," he mused. "And, you know what? It _is_ a relief. The archdemon's here, right here. And it means I'm going to die."

Wynne reached over and gave the short hairs of his chin a sharp tug.

"Ow! Hey!"

"Fatalistic nonsense." Sitting back, she shook her head. "I have had as much of _that_ as I can stand."

Alistair ran a sheepish hand through his unruly hair, but his gaze hardened as he propped himself up on his elbows. "You're going to tell me I sound like Her, aren't you? Well, what about _you_?" He nodded to her breastplate, to the thick pads of embroidered leather stretched over her knees. "We were Grey Wardens. It's all taint and death and doom. What's your excuse?"

Looking to her hands, Wynne chuckled beneath her breath. She ran idle fingers over the softly-tinkling mail, over the worn scales that started just above her elbow. She would never have any skill with a sword, but there was something comforting in the armor's weight. Adjusting the still-strange magics, she let herself feel it. But it would not shield her from what she must do.

"I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."

"We all mourn her, in our way." She looked up at him with a quiet sigh. "Have you spoken with Morrigan?"

Alistair blinked. "Morrigan? I... no. Not since we arrived, since I..." He scowled, flushing again at the memory.

"And these dreams. Did she speak to you in them?"

"Sure. Same as always. I'm a fool, I'm a child..." His eyes narrowed. "Why?"

Wynne steeled herself, forcing her hands to lay still in her lap. Maker, forgive her. But she would not see another child lost. "Alistair, when Morrigan comes to you... you must listen to what she has to say."

He goggled, lips moving in wordless disbelief. Still his face was a mask of confusion, but this was not her question to ask, not her choice to make. She could only caution that he see if for what it was. _Blood magic,_ something inside her said, _and worse._ But it was still a choice.

"What are you... what are you talking about? What do you mean 'when she comes to me'...?"

Wynne's gaze strayed down the tunnel, saw Leliana come trotting to a halt as she scanned the shadows. She coughed.

The bard spun round, catching sight of them. "Wynne! Alistair!"

Wynne came swiftly to her feet, smoothing her leggings. It was an old nervous habit, she knew, and so strange without robes. Alistair watched her still, but if Leliana noticed anything amiss, she did not show it.

"Queen Anora wishes to see us. 'The Warden's Council,' she is calling it." She rocked excited on the balls of her feet, remembering herself enough to bend and give Alistair a quick hug. "You are well?"

"Yeah." His eyes did not leave Wynne.

But Leliana slipped between them, sparing Wynne an apologetic nod as she bent to help Alistair to his feet. "And I would speak with you. About Anders."

Alistair groaned, steadying himself against the rough-hewn wall, but soon enough they were moving through the tunnels. Wynne fell into step behind them, listening distractedly.

"...Even if I wanted to, I can't. The Joining requires the blood of an archdemon."

"She fought beside you before She took Her vows, no?"

"Briefly." Alistair shook his head. "But I wouldn't do that. Joining the Wardens is a death sentence. Literally. Even if we survive this, your friend would end up in a hole fighting darkspawn, the same as everyone else."

"But the Templars..."

"Won't kill him. Besides, you were in the Chantry. I thought you'd be on their side."

Leliana was scowling now. "And you have seen what it is that they do. You left them. On which side does that put you?"

Calling for the Right of Conscription had been a desperate stroke of brilliance on Anders' part; Wynne had to credit the boy that much. The Grey Warden order was perhaps the one place in which a mage could live free of templar supervision. But...

Alistair stopped, whirling on Leliana in the shadowed space. "I won't make another Warden. I won't condemn someone else to die." With that, he stalked away.

They caught up to him where the tunnel curved, opening into the now-familiar cellar. Anora sat at her accustomed spot before the maps with Nathaniel Howe standing nearest the entrance at her back. The rest of their companions sat or leaned against the walls – all save Anders and Justice. Thank the Maker for small favors.

Wynne had spoken with the spirit, had attempted to explain to Alistair when first he woke. But he had only stared toward the ceiling, asking no questions, reacting only when she ventured to compare the spirit to her own. His anger was for a dead man, but it made her wonder again at her own curiosity. They were alike, Justice and this nameless spirit that had extended her life. Would it linger, she wondered, living on even after her soul had fled? Was Loghain's fate a mirror of her own?

Shaking herself, Wynne pushed forward and took the empty chair beside the table. Scraps trotted over, letting her scratch behind an ear before stretching at her feet.

It was a shrewd move on the part of the queen, calling the Warden's companions. They had nearly accomplished what they now set out to do; they best knew the risks... and the cost. Still, the gesture was a hopeful one.

Conversation stopped when Alistair entered the room.

"Yeah, yeah, the last Warden's here. Dead man walking." Realizing what he had just said, he smirked.

Anora's expression turned to ice. "We have two Wardens."

"No, what you have is a corpse. And a mistake."

"It is good to see you on your feet. I have known women to stay abed many days after such a spell."

So much for gestures of good faith. Wynne cleared her throat, but it was Sten who spoke.

"Can a dead Warden kill the archdemon?"

Morrigan sniffed. "The act destroys both the archdemon and the Warden. Can a spirit such as this Justice even be killed?"

"How does everyone know about this?" Alistair glared at Morrigan. "How do _you_ know about it?"

"I have known for some time."

"Great. That's just great." His fists clenched as he paced. "I would have loved to have known about it a year ago, half a year."

"We know now." Wynne's voice was soft. He did not look at her.

"The taint is in the blood. Is that not what draws it?"

Alistair whirled to face the young Lord Howe. "Why do _you_ even care?"

"My grandfather was a Grey Warden."

Alistair snorted. "Why do I not believe you? The Howes are almost as bad as-as..."

"You think I am my father?" Nathaniel's brows drew low. "If you were _your_ father, the archdemon would be dead and cold."

"Don't talk to me like I'm a—"

"Petulant child?" Morrigan moved forward on swaying steps. "Ignoring those who would help you as you nurse your wounded pride?" She stalked past him, speaking still to the room at large. "Would a dead Warden be an acceptable host, I wonder? We cannot be certain. The risk is too great."

"Wait... you're agreeing with me?"

She smiled softly, but her eyes darted to the entryway.

Alistair turned slowly, stiffening to see the figure that appeared from the tunnel's shadows.

Justice, too, paused to study him. "So. It seems you have… recovered."

The tone was enough to make Wynne wonder how much of the dead man truly remained, but Alistair had already spun away, making for the gear piled against the wall. "Where is it?" Stooping, he glared up at Sten. "Where is it?"

The Qunari grunted, pulling a bottle from the large pack at his belt. Alistair snatched it from his hands, taking a long and sloppy pull as he turned to the others, daring any to challenge him.

"You're right. You _have_ a Warden. A big, magic spirit-Warden. Let him deal with the archdemon. Let him be the hero. I'm not staying here."

"Again, my friend?" Zevran's words were half in jest, but Alistair's eyes flashed as they swept past him. They faltered on Leliana, on Wynne, but he shook his head, taking another drink as he hardened his resolve.

He gave the spectre of Loghain a wide berth as he stormed toward the tunnel, pausing again to look back at them.

"Alistair." Morrigan ventured a step closer. "I would speak with you."

He looked to Wynne then, confusion giving way to resignation as he turned away. "Yeah. Alright. Come on."


	15. Chapter 15

"What do you think they are talking about?"

Zevran glanced up to find Leliana leaning against the tree beside him. The sun had not yet broken over the city's distant walls, but he had been here well before the clouds began to lighten, idly working the filth from his boots with the point of his dagger. Sheathing it, he followed her gaze toward the edge of the copse, to the panting figures leaning heavy upon their swords.

He shrugged. "Perhaps they are marveling at where the Queen manages to find such lovely gowns, despite our unfortunate circumstances. Or discussing the dreadful shortage of cheese. Note Alistair's particularly dour expression."

Leliana's chuckle was little more than a whispered sigh. She crouched beside him, watching as Sten interrupted Alistair with a wave of his hand. The smaller man looked as though he would protest, but the Qunari had already pulled the point of his blade from the dirt, stepping back to begin again. The pair of them had been sparring for nearly as long as Zevran had been sitting.

And they were not the only ones about despite the hour. Oghren had grumbled from the cot beside him as Zevran woke, muttering something about elves not belonging underground. A gentle reminder that he was indeed no stranger to dark and filthy holes had earned him another grunt, the feigned snores resuming as the dwarf rolled away.

As he slipped through the tunnels, Zevran had spied candles burning still in the Queen's map room, voices from the Templar's alcove. He had not paused, wondering briefly at his own haste. Perhaps there was some strange and long-buried elven call, but it was not the trees that he needed. It was not even the darkness, his old, familiar friend. Looking again to the walls, to the tower rising beyond, he stiffened. He could not speak for the others, but he knew well why sleep eluded him.

"And what of Morrigan?"

The words recalled him slowly, bringing a wry smile to his lips.

"She is up to something, I know it. Some plan. Do you think she convinced him?"

Zevran tilted his head, studying Alistair as he changed direction and came about on Sten's weaker side. It would have been a decent feint, but too slow. Shaking his head, Zevran chuckled. "I would not worry about it. He does not look like a man who has been recently... convinced."

Leliana caught his tone. "What do you mean?"

"He is so stiff, so angry. He moves like he were made of wood..." Zevran chuckled to himself. "And with a fuse shorter than that of a two-fingered assassin's grenade."

"What?"

"Ah, did I not mention this?" Fishing in the folds of his tunic, Zevran produced a familiar book. Such a small thing, and worn, but he paused to trail a lingering finger along the spine. Dropping it into Leliana's hands, he shrugged. "The page is marked."

"This is...?"

"Yes, yes, the horrible, murderous fiend stooped so low as to steal a poor girl's diary."

Raising her eyes to his, Leliana smiled. "I think it is sweet."

He snorted, watching as her eyes skimmed over the words.

If he was not mistaken, the page trembled beneath her fingers. "It is... almost like She is still here." Again, she smiled for him but he turned his face away, looking to the tower. The shock of the words was a moment more in coming. "But Morrigan... she-she..."

"Appears to be a woman of _singularly_unique desires, yes?"

"Alistair would never..." The truth of it hit her then, as he had known that it would. "The Warden. She did not need to die."

"And yet She did."

They sat in silence for a time. Still the sparrers sparred, but Alistair's strength was flagging. With a final, frustrated grunt he put his full weight behind a lunge, driving toward Sten's midsection. The big man turned the blade with ease, bringing his own around to smack the flat against Alistair's back as he stumbled past him.

"No, I would wager our Alistair remains unconvinced."

Leliana's lips twitched as she lay the book gently back in Zevran's lap. "You carry Her next to your heart."

"And such a tale you would spin of it!" Tucking the tome carefully away, he smirked. "A convenient pocket, nothing more. And it has already provided us with useful information."

"Uh huh." She leaned companionably against him and slipped a finger beneath his collar, tugging it down to reveal the soft flesh of his neck. "And this?"

His own hand moved to the mark – the mark of Her blade – tracing it unbidden. "I have many scars."

"You did not accept healing."

"There were no mages about. You may recall the city was in a bit of an uproar, hm?"

"It is not too late to lessen it. Shall I summon Wynne?" She pushed halfway to her feet but stopped as he lay a hand on her arm.

Zevran smirked. "You, my dear Leliana, are a wicked thing." He pulled the collar back into place as she sat beside him. "And what of your own troubles? You seem to have mislaid a rather handsome traveling companion."

"I have spoken to Ser Cullen. He assures me that Anders is unharmed." Her scowl revealed just how willing she was to believe it.

"And how long will he remain that way? These Templars are not known for their love of reason." He nodded to Alistair, shaking his head as the former Templar threw down his sword and retrieved his bottle from beside a tree.

"_Sot têtu_. He could _fix_this."

"Mm. He has had a great many people telling him that. A wonder that he did not tire of it sooner."

Leliana looked as though she would say more, but there was a sudden thump in the trees behind them as the trap door hidden in the underbrush was thrown open. She was on her feet in a shot, with Zevran beside her. A sideways glance at her expression sent him reaching for his daggers, but he did not draw.

Two of the sour-faced Templars were the first to emerge. Behind them came their leader – this Ser Cullen – looking as embittered and uncomfortable with his role as ever. One hand was clamped hard round the arm of the mage Anders, his desperate impression of man out for a carefree morning stroll somewhat ruined by the additional pair of Templars at his back. Wynne followed close at their heels and, strangely enough, the spectre of Loghain.

"It is... not right," he grumbled, but Wynne was speaking over him, a whirlwind of breathless anger.

"You have never performed the Rite. Have you even seen it done? Do you even know what it is that you do?"

The harried, young Templar sighed. "I have witnessed it. And Harrowings. Believe me when I say that I do not take this lightly."

"If you would only consider—"

Cullen rounded on her. "Consider what? Seven times the mage has escaped. _Seven times._If he would flout laws that were put in place for his own safety, what else would he consider?"

"I might consider living to be a _good_thing, to start." Anders snorted, but his smirk twisted bitter. "Or at least a decent last meal."

They ignored him. "This is war, Cullen. We need every man."

"And I can't spare any more to guard him."

"Then release him into my charge!"

He looked toward the city, voice dropping as his eyes grew distant. "With the darkspawn, at least you _know_. Mages, though? You can never be sure." He shook his head. "He will still be useful, tending our gear, enchanting our weapons."

"_Enchantment?_" Anders stopped, shrugging off his captor's grip. "To the Void with that." He spotted Leliana then, a brief and unbidden smile blooming before his eyes grew sad again. When he took a step toward them, Cullen's hand went to his sword. Anders spared him a baleful glare. "I'm not running. Wouldn't want to ruin your fun."

Leliana darted to meet him, pulling up short as she tilted her head to look up at him. If she spoke, Zevran did not hear it, but Anders chuckled, raising a gentle thumb to smooth the worried wrinkles from her brow. His arms looped around her then, crushing her against his chest as he covered her mouth with his.

It was a splendid kiss and ended all too soon. Anders stepped full away, watching her with a sad smile. "I just didn't want to never have done that."

Leliana looked as though she did not know whether to scream or weep, whether the fingers that strayed to the blade at her belt meant to sink it into Ser Cullen's chest or into her own. But Anders followed without protest now, moving with the Templars to a ridge overlooking the city, shadowed beneath the trees and the first strains of morning.

A crowd had followed from the passage, he saw, Oghren, Nathaniel and Shale among them. Even the hound was with them, cocking his head with a curious whine. Sten and Alistair had sheathed their blades, watching expressionless. Zevran studied the latter for a long moment, wondering if he would join his former fellows, but his eyes were lowered, his disinterest fearfully won.

Wynne opened her mouth to speak once more, but Cullen shook his head sadly. "I take no joy in this. I brought him here so that the Maker might bear witness, so that he might face the light."

"I've seen the sunrise before. Very pretty. Can we go?" Yet, Anders' words were flat. One of the Templars lay a heavy hand on his shoulder, forcing him to his knees. Sitting back on his heels, he laughed to himself, a whispered and desperate sound. "I suppose I should have seen this coming."

"_No!_" Leliana pushed forward, shouldering the Templars aside. Her gaze found Alistair, doing his best to hide beneath the shadow of the trees. "_You!_Why will you not do as he asks? This is not how the story ends!"

"It _did_end. And I already told you why."

"Because you are a coward."

"I'm not—"

"But we should have expected this, no? You did it before. You did not wish to be involved. And so you let Her die." Her lips trembled. "We all did."

_Some more than others._Zevran's eyes flickered toward the tower.

"He's not going to die." Alistair scowled. He knew the words were hollow.

"In all of the ways that count. I thought Grey Wardens were supposed to be heroes."

"Maker's breath, Leliana, it's not a story! And there are no more heroes." He nodded toward Anders. "You think _he's_a hero?"

Anders shrugged. "I could be. You never know."

Alistair's gaze swung between them. "And I'm just supposed to do this because you tell me to? Because he thinks getting killed by the archdemon is better than living a long and peaceful life?"

"You will do it because you know that it is right, my friend." Alistair seemed surprised to find Zevran watching him, his eyes shifting uncomfortably away from that knowing smirk.

"I can't actually _make_him a Warden. The Joining requires the blood of an archdemon."

"But you can conscript him, yes?"

He sighed, defeated. "Who would _want_to be a Grey Warden? I mean, after everything...?"

"I would." They had not seen Nathaniel Howe approach, but he slipped through the crowd now, standing stiff and proud as he met Alistair's wondering gaze.

"Maker's breath, why?"

"There is nothing heroic in my family's name, or so the world would now believe. But it was something more once, and that was due in part to the Wardens. That is the legacy that I would have continue."

"Oh, sod it. If the sneering, little snotrag can do it, so can I." Oghren moved forward on heavy, limping steps, earning a raised brow from Nathaniel as he stopped beside him.

"Charming. If we are going to be brothers, I will have to think of an equally appropriate nickname for you."

"Heh. Do yer worst, Howe."

Alistair shook his head. "Oghren?"

"The Warden told me somethin' about this Joining of yours. It's been too long since I've had a good, stiff drink."

He was clearly outmatched, but still Alistair tried to argue. "You do know what being a Grey Warden means, right? You'll probably die. Probably soon."

"Yes."

"Yup."

Below them, Anders cleared his throat. Alistair only then seemed to remember him, staring at the mage for a long and uncertain moment. Finally, he reached down, clasping the other man at the elbow to help him to his feet.

"Welcome… welcome to the Grey Wardens."

The dawn darkened around them, the new light winking out before it could truly begin. As the roaring shadow passed overhead, companions new and old alike followed its progress toward the city. Zevran had little doubt now that the archdemon was biding its time, toying with them. It had taken to the skies again, recovering from its wounds as though the battle had never been. A pity the same could not be said of them.


	16. Chapter 16

Splintered boards groaned beneath his feet as he made his way into the barn. The place had been ruined before they got here, the north wall half collapsed and blackened by some bloody unnatural flame. It still stood, though, and the rear of the building was sturdy enough. Their own men had scavenged anything that wasn't nailed down, breaking up the animal stalls to use the planks for fires or barricades, sweeping the rushes from the floor to build sleeping pallets in the tunnels below. They'd seen no reason to come back since.

The ladder half-hidden in the gloom was bolted securely to the floor and too old and rotted to be of much use to anyone. It was splintered, some of the rungs missing altogether. The second from the bottom was broken clean through – that was new. Raising his face to the loft above, he took a deep sniff. Heh. No mistaking a smell like that.

Oghren snorted a laugh. "You gonna come down, or do I have to climb up there after ya?"

There was a shuffle and a thump. A moment later a pair of bleary eyes peeked over the loft's edge beneath a tangle of disheveled hair. "Go away."

"That any way to speak to one of yer fellow Grey Wardens?"

Alistair groaned. "You're not a Warden. Not yet."

"Aye, but I can still come up there and kick you over the edge, bum leg or not." He chuckled. "I've tried to sleep off my fair share of bad ideas. Better if you just get up and get on with it. Trust me."

Alistair blinked down at him. With a sigh, he pushed himself up, his steps ringing heavy as he found his way back to the ladder. He seemed to remember then, pausing a moment to scoop up his bottles. "If I throw these down, will you catch them?"

"Can't promise nothin'."

The first was just beyond his reach, but Oghren caught it with a lunge. The second sent him stumbling in the other direction, cursing his leg and the third he missed altogether, wincing as it shattered. There was no excuse for wasting good ale.

But Alistair was making his way down the ladder now. He lost his footing near the bottom, stumbling the rest of the way. Oghren cradled the bottles in one arm and caught the Warden with the other.

"This some test of Grey Warden dexterity?"

Alistair slid to his knees, letting Oghren lower him to the floor. "Maker's breath, but I'm useless."

"Yer drunk."

"And I can't even manage that. You..." He waggled an accusing finger in Oghren's face. "You made it look easy."

"Heh." Curling his leg stiffly beneath him, Oghren sat beside Alistair and studied one of the bottles. "I was damn good at it, wasn't I?"

"And at the belching. And the not-bathing. And the pissing in strange places."

"Those were the days." He tilted his head, a smile tugging at his lips. "Yer Warden – she could hold her own too. Not drinkin' my brew, but no one can. You remember the time she tried it? That night at camp?"

Alistair almost smiled with him, though he tried his best to hide it. "Yes."

"Fell right back on her arse, she did. And bowed before my prowess right and proper when she woke." He trailed off, looking toward the shadowed walls. "Figured if she could survive that, she could survive anything."

Alistair hung his head. "Is that why you stopped? Gave up drinking?"

"Hah! Not soddin' likely!" But it sounded hollow, even to him. "I stopped 'cause there was nothing _to_ drink. Even I'd run out. And then when we found a few crates here… but I guess I was just used to it by then." He rubbed at his leg, felt the deep ache rush up to meet his fingers.

"Used to what?"

Oghren raised his eyes to his. "The pain. Felt I deserved it, I guess. For survivin'. Heh. Sounds silly to say it out loud, don't it?"

"Not really." With a sympathetic nod, Alistair made as if to take the bottle from his hands.

Oghren swatted him away. He turned the thing round, chuckling to himself. After a long moment, he smiled, throwing back his head to take a long pull.

"What are you doing?"

Wiping a hand through his beard, Oghren smacked his lips. "Not bad. Not bad. Seems to me, we all have our parts to play. Only it's gotten confused."

"Meaning...?" Alistair reached across him for the second bottle, but Oghren shifted to block his way.

"Meanin', you're right. You're a shit drunk." He belched, breaking into a grin. "Whereas I've got a natural talent. And a party only needs one great, soddin' embarrassment."

"What about me?"

"You be the hero, like you were meant to."

"That wasn't me." Alistair slumped, curling his knees to his chest. "It was never supposed to be me."

"Then what are we all doin' here? Might as well just line up and wait for the archdemon to swallow us, huh?"

He snorted. "Fine. But there's no rule that says the hero can't have a drink." Again, he lunged but Oghren cradled both bottles to his chest, taking a sip from each. Alistair pouted. "You can't drink all of it."

"Wanna bet? An' maybe it's not the most noble contribution, but I'll drink up every drop in this camp, if only so you can't." He roared with laughter at that.

Strangely enough, Alistair smiled. He looked almost relieved as he settled back beside him. "How did you know where I was, anyway?"

"The elf said he saw you headin' this way."

"Nosy bastard."

"Hah! Among other things."

A crash echoed like the shot of a great bolt, rattling the walls around them. Alistair was on his feet, darting for the door, but he came back when Oghren didn't follow. His leg had gone stiff, but the heat was in his veins again and it felt better, all things considered. He waved him away, pushing himself awkwardly to his feet.

"Go, go, I'm comin'!" He stuffed the bottles into his pouch and followed.

The morning sun was glaring when he ducked back through the fallen wall, one hand moving to shield his eyes as he cursed. Something had slammed hard into the barn's roof and it lay now in the field, a long trail of grass flattened where it had skidded. Alistair had almost reached the thing, but he spun away as if burned.

"What is it?" Oghren puffed, closing the distance. But it was to Alistair that he looked, standing facing away with his eyes pinched shut. When he saw what was on the ground behind him, Oghren gaped. "Stone, boy! She could be hurt!"

Morrigan lay in a tangled heap, not a stitch on her. But Oghren barely had time to register her nakedness before the witch pushed up on an elbow with a shuddering sigh. "I am fine enough."

"Oh, you're fine. _Fine!_ Naked and bloody and up on the roof doing Maker knows what!" Alistair glanced over his shoulder, but turned away again with a hiss.

"I was not _on_ the roof. I simply... misjudged."

"So you were – what? – flying around on your broomstick? Doing some other dark ritual?"

Morrigan was on her feet now. She moved to stand in front of Alistair, but he kept his eyes firmly on the ground.

Ripping the tattered cloak from his back, he pushed it into her arms. "Here... just... here." As she settled it around her shoulders, he raised his eyes. "Maker's breath, what happened to you?"

Her lip was bloodied, hair matted and tangled, her arms covered with long scratches, but still she stood proud and glaring. "It is no business of yours."

A flush was creeping into his cheeks. "Is this because I... because I wouldn't...?"

"Such a high opinion of yourself." Morrigan sneered, wrinkling her nose as she studied him. "Any woman spurned by such a prize would surely weep and rush headlong to her death in her despair."

"It certainly looks like you tried."

She scoffed, opening her palm to reveal something that Oghren couldn't see. But the look that passed between the two was enough. "Wait... you tried to bed _him_?"

"Be silent, dwarf."

"And you. You turned her _down_?" He doubled over with laughter.

"That's not... it's not what you think." Cheeks flaring, Alistair snatched the thing from Morrigan's palm, holding it up to the light. It was a small vial, the contents sloshing slow and black. "Maker..."

Morrigan watched him through narrowed eyes. "And what do _you_ think, Warden?"

"Is this...? How did you...? You're mad, absolutely mad!"

"Lemme see." Oghren reached up and plucked it from between his fingers.

"Be careful, dwarf. You hold your doom."

"Eh?"

Morrigan folded her arms, hugging the cloak tighter around her, but it was to Alistair that she looked. "You may have your Joining."

His lips worked soundless as he shook his head in disbelief. "The blood of an _archdemon_? Where did you get it?"

She sighed exasperated, rolling her eyes toward the city.

"So you just walked up to it, is that it? Asked if we could borrow some of its blood?"

" Are you truly so thick? Do you practice at it? A scratch was all it took. I was there and gone before I could be noticed."

"But it did notice, didn't it?" Oghren poked a finger at her arm and she winced.

"And then you fell out of the sky." Alistair took back the vial, but he held it at arm's length, as though afraid to touch it. "I said I didn't need your help."

"That is one opinion."

"And now the archdemon knows we're coming."

Morrigan turned away, striding back toward the farmhouse, proud as a queen despite the bruises and borrowed cloak. "Then you had best be quick about it."


	17. Chapter 17

He had sworn never to do this again. Maker, he had _sworn_.

But Leliana had begged and Howe had made it a mark of honor and Oghren had just laughed. Alistair had sworn never to make another Grey Warden, never to condemn another to die. Yet here he stood, waiting beneath the trees with the familiar cup in his hands. _She_ had recovered it from Ostagar, had given it to him. And then She had died.

It was Morrigan who had made this possible, Morrigan who had taken the choice away from him. Alistair's hands clenched around the Joining chalice as he spotted her striding up from the farmhouse. He would hate her for it until the day he died.

By all accounts that would probably be soon. He could just make out the city through the trees, but he could see nothing of the archdemon. He should feel relief, he knew. If any of them survived, he would be amongst brothers once again. But he knew what being a Warden meant now, knew what it meant in truth. Sooner or later, what he did today would doom them all.

Morrigan's injuries looked to have been healed, but he turned his eyes away as soon as she crested the ridge. The others had already gathered, Wynne and Sten and Shale, Scraps pacing restlessly between them. He spared Howe a solemn nod when he appeared from the trees, but grimaced as Anora appeared at his side. Oghren and Zevran followed soon after, the elf catching the dwarf as he stumbled. Choking back a belch, Oghren gave Alistair a wink.

They waited only for Anders now. Alistair felt he should say something, but he knew of no words other than those solemn few. The memory caused him to pinch shut his eyes. The last time he had said them...

"Is this not normally a secret ritual?"

Maker, he had forgotten. The voice sent shivers up his spine, his knuckles growing white around the cup. But Alistair forced himself to breathe, to open his eyes. He was not the only Warden here.

Loghain watched him, cold and expressionless.

"Does any of this look normal to you?"

"Hm." He inclined his head. "In times of war, there are few secrets. Though we might try to exercise discretion."

"That's funny, I don't remember asking for your opinion." He gestured to his companions, old and new. "They _know_. They know more about it than you."

"This body's memories..."

"Should have stayed dead." He turned away, working the stiffness from his fingers. "As far as I'm concerned, the last Warden died on top of Fort Drakon."

"And where does that leave you?"

"Standing in the woods with a dead man and a big, creepy cup." Anders appeared at a trot, leading Leliana by the arm. He grinned. "Sorry we're late."

Zevran tsked. "Leliana, my dear. Your skirt..."

She looked down, noticed that it was backwards and gave a little squeak. Straightening it, she shot the elf a red-cheeked glare. Anders, though, only laughed, kissing her on the forehead before turning to join Oghren and Nathaniel.

Oghren elbowed the mage with a chuckle.

"Right. I..." Alistair looked between them. He could think of nothing to say, nothing but... "Are you _sure_?"

"Yes."

"Uh huh."

"Nope." Anders shrugged. "But what's a little taint between friends?"

Oghren chortled. "Good motto for a Warden. Have to remember that one."

"Perhaps we'll emblazon it on our tunics. Form a club."

Nathaniel pinched the bridge of his nose. "Could we just get on with it?"

The hope of Ferelden. Alistair supposed he wasn't much better. But again his eyes strayed back toward the city. If relief was to be had it was long in coming.

The glance chanced to bring his gaze to Loghain's again. The spirit watched him still, taking a slow step forward. "Is there something I must do?"

"No. Just... go away. I can do it. I've done it before." He swallowed hard. "Join us..." Each word came heavier than the last, each one threatening to choke him anew. Even then he had watched Her. Not Jory, not Daveth, only Her. She hadn't looked afraid, not like him, not like any of them. She had been, he knew, She had told him so herself. But that was later, just before he had...

Nathaniel stepped forward. Had he really said the words already? But Howe was taking the chalice from his hands now, bringing it slowly to his lips. He jerked, stumbling backward and falling to his knees. It was all Alistair could do to remember to catch the cup.

He had betrayed her. And now he betrayed her again. "I'm sorry," he whispered as Howe collapsed onto his back.

But the man breathed; he would live. Anora rushed forward to kneel at his side but Alistair barely registered the strangeness of it, choking on a laugh.

Oghren took the cup from him now, pausing a moment to look up at him with a curious expression. "You look more scared than I do."

He blinked. "Scared? You should be."

"But there's not much I can do about it now, is there?" He sniffed the cup, turning it to watch the contents swirl. With a shrug and a sigh, he threw back his head, blood sloshing down his beard.

Alistair had to snatch the cup away. "Maker's breath, save some!"

Oghren grinned beneath eyes gone white. "Now, that's the good stuff." With a belch, he toppled over.

"What is it they say?" Anders stepped forward, nudging Oghren with a boot as the dwarf began to snore. "The Joining kills one in three?"

"About that, yes."

"Lucky me." With a resigned smirk, he brought the cup to his lips.

"Anders."

He paused, raising his eyebrows at Morrigan over the rim. "Yes?"

"After you have recovered... come and see me."

"_What?_" Leliana took a step forward, but Zevran grabbed for her sleeve, holding a fistful of straining wool as she struggled against him.

Alistair had almost forgotten that Morrigan was there, but he rounded on her now, putting himself between them. "Wow. _Wow._ You just don't waste any time, do you?"

"We do not have time to spare."

"What? Is Howe not good enough? Oghren?" He pressed a hand of his forehead. "Maker… of _course_ that's why you wanted us to have the blood, why you wanted us to have the Joining. But you're just trying to help, right? Trying to save us all. Funny that the only thing you have to offer is between your legs."

For a moment, Morrigan looked as though she would strike him. Her breath came sharp through gritted teeth, but she only folded her arms.

But Alistair that stepped forward now, all of the fear, the guilt bubbling anew. "I know why She didn't take you up on your little offer, you know. It's not the blood magic or the fact that it might not even work. It's because She knew that there was no way I'd ever agree to it. Ever. That the thought of you-you... I would rather face a hundred archdemons. I would rather die, rather—"

Her hand pulled back before he could flinch, taking him full across the face. The slap echoed beneath the trees, the sting bringing tears to his eyes.

Morrigan stepped round, turning her gaze to the others. "Wynne. I would speak with you as well."

"Right..." Alistair's spat, his eyes narrowing as he rubbed at his cheek. "I don't think it works that way."

She ignored him. "And any other mages that you deem strong enough."

"What? Wardens aren't enough for you?"

Morrigan whirled, closing the gap between them, her fists balling at her sides as Alistair staggered backward. "Are you truly so big a fool? Has your tainted blood blinded you to all but death and sacrifice? You have refused me already; you need not do so again. But you have your archdemon's blood and you ask how it is that I acquired it. I ask you this... your Grey Warden scrolls. Do you think that they were _all_ that Mother recovered from your ruined Tower? What other treasures were there, I wonder? What knowledge lost to the ages of your order?"

"Knowledge... what knowledge? What are you talking about?"

"But I forget. You do not need my help." She seemed to swell then, shoulders hunching as her body lengthened, the air around her shimmering. When her voice came again, it was strained, inhuman. "The archdemon flies again. How will you fight it? Your Grey Wardens of old had no such trouble. Perhaps there are no true Wardens left."

Alistair took another step back, eyes widening as the light began to fade.

The beast before him shook its head, back bristling as its tail swished in restless anger. It lunged, beak snapping at his face before powerful legs pushed off from the earth, taking to the sky on beating wings. For a moment Morrigan circled above them, disappearing into the clouds with a shrieking roar that had not been heard in ages.

Leliana moved to his side, mouth working as she tried to find the words. "Was that...?"

"A griffon. Maker's breath, that was a griffon."


	18. Chapter 18

"So the griffons of legend... they were the Grey Warden mages?"

Wynne looked up from the sock that she was darning and arched a suspicious brow. "Why are you asking me?"

"Because you are a mage and..." Leliana hesitated. Looking to her boots, she tucked a braid sheepishly behind one ear. "And wise."

"_Old_, you mean." Wynne chuckled. "Age does not necessarily grant wisdom. And I should think you know the stories better than I."

Leliana shook her head, pacing the narrow alcove that served as sleeping quarters for the women of the Denerim resistance. Funny that she should think of them that way, but word of the Joining had spread through the hidden camps, bringing with it a renewed sense of energy, whispers that sounded almost like hope. At the moment, she and Wynne were alone, but she heard a group of soldiers clattering nosily through the tunnel beyond. "I do not know many tales of the Wardens."

"And yet you seem quite taken with them." Wynne smirked but kept her eyes on her needlework. "I suspect I do not need to have the same talk with you that I had with Alistair?"

"Talk?"

"Tell me, child, do you know where babies come from?"

Leliana suppressed a chuckle, pursing her lips instead. "If you pray very, very hard the Maker leaves them on your doorstep, swaddled and wrapped in a bow."

Wynne laughed. "It is good to see you smile again. You have seemed troubled since the Joining. This Anders..."

"Oh, no. No, it is nothing like that." Her cheeks warmed, but the fluttering in her stomach had returned. This is why she had come to find the old mage, but suddenly she could not find the words. "I... when they stepped forward – Oghren and Nathaniel – why did you not stand with them?"

Wynne raised her head, studying her. Those eyes saw much, despite their sympathy, despite that soft and knowing smile. "I doubt the Wardens would have much use for an old woman." She shook her head, gesturing with her needle. The sewing looked strange against her armored knees. "I must be content to offer what I can. If not for me, Alistair would catch a chill before he ever reached the city walls."

Her tone was light, but Leliana suspected that there was resignation behind the words. The mage had changed much since their travels together; the Arcane Warrior's armor was the least of it. But always she had pretended her part was small, offering advice or comfort to those who would do great deeds. It had been that way with the Warden. Leliana watched her now, busying herself as her smile faltered, clucking her tongue to hide a sigh as she ripped out a bad stitch. Perhaps it was a habit she had tried to break, a mother's instinct that now brought only bitterness. The Warden had been as a daughter to her, but all the advice in the world had not been enough.

Leliana threw her arms around Wynne and pulled her into a fierce hug. She dropped her darning in surprise, but she chuckled once more, giving Leliana a pat on the arm. They shared a smile as she pulled away.

"You should go and see to your young man. Need I warn you of the tales of Grey Warden appetites? Particularly in those new made."

"I remember. The Warden, She ate like a half-starved wolf, no?"

Still her eyes were sad, but Wynne smirked and shook her head. "You assume I am talking about food."

With a quiet smirk, Leliana turned and made her way into the tunnel, but soon the silence and the dark pressed in around her once more. Perhaps it had been foolish to think that Wynne could ease this feeling in her chest, this strange and gnawing guilt. She had been so angry that day on the ridge when Alistair had found his new Wardens, so relieved when the Templars set Anders free. It had happened before she realized it, she told herself, but the excuse seemed hollow now. _She_ had been a Warden – a hero – and it was for Her memory that Leliana had sworn to do better. Why then had she not stepped forward?

That night she had lain awake and, for the first time since the Warden's death, she had turned to the Maker for guidance. The vision had led Leliana to Her, but it never hinted that they would fail. And so she had prayed for dreams – new dreams, better dreams – but she had found only restless dark.

Bracing a hand against the rough dirt of the wall, Leliana swallowed a sob. A crash ahead made her jump, a shattering sound that might have been breaking pottery. Taking a slow step forward, she peered round the next bend.

"Your father would have said that he was only doing his duty as well."

"You think so? My father did nothing that did not serve his own interests, I assure you."

So lost in thought was she that she had found her way to the Queen's chamber, the old cellar beneath the farmhouse. Had she kept walking, she might have continued down the main fork without notice, but a pair of familiar figures stood just beyond the doorway and there was now no way for Leliana to slip past unseen. With a vague stirring of guilt, she pressed against the wall and peeked round.

Queen Anora's back was to her but she stood as stiff and imperious as ever, perhaps even more so. Nathaniel Howe was gazing down at her, his face an unreadable mask of careful indifference. There was a broken cup at his feet, Leliana saw, a wet stain on the wall beside his head. If she did not know better, she might have guessed that the queen had thrown it at him.

"And if I command you? If I order you to remain here? Your Queen will need protecting. Let the others rush to their deaths."

Nathaniel dropped into a deep bow, his lips twisting into a mocking sneer. "The Wardens serve no realm, Your Grace. Our only concern is the darkspawn. And you need not trouble yourself with our methods."

"Oh yes, your _methods_. Your noble sacrifice. I suppose that _is_ your only concern. _Clearly._" Anora raised her chin and sniffed, but her hands balled at her sides.

As he straightened, Nathaniel's brows drew low, studying her face. When he spoke again, his whisper was hushed and hoarse. "I hear there is another option."

"Get out. _Now_." The queen spun and thrust an arm toward the door. Leliana barely had time to press back against the wall. "My _father_ was a Grey Warden. He would never allow—"

Nathaniel stepped into the corridor, so close that Leliana could have reached round the bend and touched him, but his eyes were all for Anora. "That _thing_ is not your father." He turned, moving away down the tunnel without a backward glance. "And neither am I."

Leliana had been holding her breath, she realized. She waited until Nathaniel's steps faded, until she heard the scrape of Anora's chair, and let it all out in a whoosh.

"Tsk. Eavesdropping? For shame."

She squeaked, whirling to shove Zevran back against the wall and clamp a hand over his mouth. Even without lips, his eyes managed to grin. With a sheepish smile she released him and risked a glance toward the room.

"You should not sneak up on people like that!"

"Especially when they are quite clearly up to no good."

"_Tais-toi_." She swatted him lightly across the chest. "I was looking for you, actually."

"Oh? Do tell."

Leliana risked another glance down the tunnel before motioning for him to follow. As they passed the doorway, she caught a glimpse of Anora glowering down at her maps. She did not seem to notice them.

"I wanted to speak with you. About what happened... the Joining..."

"Ah." Zevran smirked and linked an arm through hers. "You are wondering why it is that you did not volunteer yourself, hm? Why you did not take the cup and play the hero?"

She hung her head. "Yes."

"And flogging yourself with guilt, too! Your Chantry sisters would be so proud."

Stopping, she turned to face him. "I am serious, Zevran. Why did _you_ not volunteer?"

Zevran tsked, but his smile faltered, his eyes darting away. "Despite what you may have heard, I do not have a taste for blood." He sighed. "But I posed the very question to our noble Qunari." His voice deepened, mocking. "'I am of the _beresaad_.'"

"Wynne said that she was too old."

"Slander and lies. Never have I seen a ripened woman with such vigor." He chuckled. "And I suppose the ritual requires a flesh-and-blood victim, yes? This excuses Shale. As to the dog... we have seen him eat worse, I think. No doubt he would be eager for a little archdemon blood."

"You are saying that the dog is more brave than us?"

"Alas that they do not make a holy Grey Warden dog bowl, hm?" He laughed but, noting her expression, his tone softened. "But they make a point, our companions. We cannot be what we are not."

"And what are we?"

"Alive, for one." He waved a dismissive hand. "Let Alistair play the hero. Those chiseled arms were made for shouldering the weight of the world."

Leliana gaped. "It's killing him!"

"As it has killed others before. A dangerous profession, heroing, one for fools and madmen. Why not a drunk?"

"And which one was She?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, yet he flinched as if she had stuck him.

Zevran turned his face away, one hand straying to the scar on his neck. Strangely, he smiled. "A madwoman, obviously. Infectious. Completely immune to practicality." There was a chuckle beneath his sigh.

"I am sorry."

"Mm?" He shook himself, fixing her with a hard-won grin. "But you are wrong on one point, my dear."

"Oh?"

"It was _I_ who was looking for _you_. I was to bring you..." Again, he took her arm, eyes searching the dark alcoves to either side of them. "...ah, here."

Leliana had been to his part of the tunnels only once before. It was darker here, the natural hollows hastily piled with those supplies that could not be of immediate use. There were broken crates and empty casks, dented cookware and children's toys – anything that was not food or arms or armor. All was well-rummaged and abandoned, the space dark save for a flickering light just visible beneath the wheels of a splintered wagon.

"What are we—?"

Zevran slipped behind her, giving her a gentle push forward before making his quiet exit. "Speaking of madmen..."

Stepping round the wagon, Leliana gasped. An enormous barrel had been turned on its end, flanked by a pair of low crates. The makeshift table had been covered with a threadbare cloth, a dripping candle illuminating a loaf of bread, two chipped flagons and a plate of salted beef.

"I suppose it's a decent enough meal, considering the circumstances. And you're certainly a pretty girl..." Anders grinned, coming smoothly to his feet. Stepping round the array, he took her hand, guiding her to one of the crates.

"You did this... for me?"

As she sat, he again took the crate opposite. "We sort of... well, we sort of put the cart before the horse, don't you think?"

Leliana smirked, dropping her eyes coyly to the tablecloth. "You might have died."

"And a true gentleman probably would have had the decency to do just that. Instead you've got me. And the finest meal this side of Orlais."

She picked up a strip of meat and nibbled at one end. "It has to be better than Alistair's cooking."

Anders laughed, but a crash amongst the crates brought him to his feet. Something cursed in the shadows, scattering a pile of salvaged paintings.

"Who's there?" Ser Cullen stepped into the light, his sword drawn. "You... What are you doing here?"

At the sight of him, Anders snorted. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"I..." His eyes lit on the barrel. "That looks well beyond your rations."

"What can I say? I'm a Grey Warden now. We like to eat."

"While others may starve." Cullen took a step forward, seeming surprised to find his blade already in his hand. "I will have to insist..."

"You really shouldn't." Anders held up a hand, lightning crackling between his fingers. With a smirk, he sent a tendril arcing toward the ground, exploding the earth in front of Cullen's boots.

The Templar leapt backward, crashing awkwardly against the wagon. "You can't do that!"

"Can't I?" Grinning still, Anders half-crouched, mimicking Cullen's stance but holding only his finger out before him. "Go away."

They stared at each other for a long moment before Cullen sheathed his blade and turned on his heel.

Sinking back onto his crate Anders looked to her, to the food, to the empty spot where the Templar had been. He gave a contented sigh. "See? _Now_ I'm happy."

"Freedom feels good, no?"

"It does." He broke the bread and handed her half. "But so do other things. That's why I thought we deserved a proper date. Not that the traveling and the sleeping in the dirt and that time we tried those berries and I spent the night listening to you retch in the bushes... not that that wasn't lovely."

Leliana reached across the table to bat at him, but he caught her hand and held it.

"Really, though, it was. All of it. I-I've never..."

Something in his expression troubled her. Leaning cross the table, Leliana brushed her lips against his nose, holding his gaze. "You are not going to die. Not when we take the city. Not for a long time after."

"Confidence. Sexy. But I'm a Grey Warden now. That's sort of how the whole thing works."

"No. You are not going to die because I will not let you."

He chuckled at that, sitting back without releasing her hand. He seemed to study it for a long moment, tracing his thumb lightly across the back of her knuckles. "Morrigan's back."

Leliana blinked at the sudden change of topic.

"Apparently your friend Alistair apologized." He raised his eyes to hers, arcing a curious brow. "And... she wants to see me tonight."

"What?" Leliana snatched her hand away.

"Not about _that_. And not just me either. Wynne, too. That poor fool Jowan. A few others."

"She is going to teach you the shapeshifting spell."

He shrugged, the easy grin returning. "But I thought it best to ask before you assumed. Things like that... well, that's how a man gets himself stabbed."

She followed his gaze, surprised to find her hand resting on the blade at her belt. With a sheepish smirk, she flexed her fingers and instead drummed them on the table. "So you are asking me to let you spend the night with Morrigan... learning how to be a griffon?"

"Or a cat. Do you think she could teach me to be a cat?"

Leliana groaned. "Fine. Yes. Go."

Anders came slowly to his feet, grin spreading wide. "Now, _that_ would be the life. Sleep all day, a nice saucer of milk..." He paused, bending to kiss her on the forehead. "But I'll be back. Really, I will."

She watched him go, sitting alone again in the encroaching dark. The candle flickered as she watched, the last of the wax pooling between their cups. He would be back; she did not doubt it. Maker, he had asked her _permission_.

But it was the Warden's words that came back to her, then, and the offer that Morrigan had made. _I cannot ask this thing..._ It was the choice that had sent Her to Her death.

Leliana watched as the wick sank into the wax, the feeble light sputtering its last.

Had she not vowed to do better?


	19. Chapter 19

The army formed up in rows, spreading out across the hills to look down upon the city. There were more of them than he might have guessed – men and elves, a handful of dwarves – springing up from whatever holes had hidden them. Some were soldiers, some were women or older children, and some looked as though they had never held a weapon in their lives. Many were wounded. All were hungry.

Leliana would have had something better to say about it, something about hope or coming into the open to stand bravely before their enemy. But Alistair could only stand alone and hang his head. This wasn't bravery; there simply wasn't enough cover here to hide even a host as small as theirs. At any moment, the archdemon could swoop overhead and roast them all alive.

He felt sick. But there were heavy footsteps behind him now, the creak of Sten's thick plate. "I'm guessing the Qunari have a saying for this? Something about it being a good day to die?"

"There are no good days to die. Trust me."

Alistair flinched and spun round. It was not Sten who stood beside him, but Loghain. "Go away."

The dead man didn't seem to hear him; his eyes remained fixed on the distant walls. "Is this justice, what we do here today? Vile as they seem, do not the darkspawn have as much right to fight for their lives as you?"

"Of course. Why _wouldn't_ you side with the darkspawn?"

"You misunderstand. Life is struggle. Such a thing rarely becomes a question of what is just."

"Then why help at all? Go away."

It looked down at him, Loghain's lips pulling into a familiar sneer. "It was a confusing thing at first. I did not understand why I felt the need to help those who were left behind. But this body... it knew. And when I saw the girl... Anora..."

"That _body_ also tried to kill me. More than once."

"That urge remains as well."

Alistair's hand went to his sword, but Loghain only rasped. It was a moment before he realized that it might have been a laugh.

"You have nothing to fear from me. I feel its call as you do." He nodded toward the city, toward the unseen shadow that seemed to hum on the air. "This... Loghain was a Grey Warden. I suppose that makes us brothers, you and I."

"Never. Absolutely, utterly... never. You call yourself Justice while wearing _that_ face...?" Alistair folded his arms, dropped them to his sides, folded them again. "If the archdemon doesn't kill you, I'll do it myself."

"But first, you need my help."

"I really don't." He turned to walk away, but Loghain lay a hand on his arm. "Don't touch me!"

"I did not come to fight you. There is a message. A party of dwarves, newly arrived. They wait for you with the others."

"Fine. Thanks for that." He whirled away, rubbing at the spot where the thing had touched him.

He'd been avoiding the thin copse of trees that was their only cover, the shadows that hid their only advantage. Morrigan would be there, but given a choice between her and Loghain... Alistair barked a bitter laugh. Three days he had managed not to see her, three days and nights she had closeted herself with the mages. When she had come to him and announced that they were ready... well, he had not known what to feel. Certainly not gratitude.

_You need me_, she had said. She had appeared beside his cot the morning after the Joining, startling him awake. He had held his pillow between them, a feeble shield that left him cringing at the memory. _You need me_, she had said again. And – Maker help him – he had whispered, _yes_. Maybe where she came from, that counted as an apology. But that was all it took. She had left him alone and started training the mages. He hadn't had to see her since.

_Maker's breath_, he was about to fly headlong to his death and all he could think about was _Morrigan_.

Before he could reach the trees, a pair of shadowed figures stepped out to greet him. Both were dwarves – one a man and one a woman. The man was looking at him curiously.

"You don't remember me, do you?"

There was something vaguely familiar about him. Alistair ran a sheepish hand through his hair. "No, I... Have we met?"

"A half dozen times or so. In the Denerim market. And more recently below Haven, but..." He chuckled. "...you were in a bit of a state."

"The armor merchant."

"Gorim."

"Right, Gorim. I... _oh_."

The dwarf waved a dismissive hand. "So you vomited in my last barrel of blades. S'alright, no one was really buying anymore."

Beside him, the other dwarf giggled.

"Have... have _we_ met?" Alistair shook his head. "I think I would remember a..."

"Dead girl?" She grinned, the tattoos on her cheeks twitching as she reached up to shake his hand. "Sigrun. And don't worry yourself; we've never met."

"What are you doing here?"

It was Gorim who spoke. "We heard there was still fighting around Denerim, some who were still holding the line. King Harrowmont commanded us to stay put, but those in the Warrior Caste have never taken well to boredom. And if there were whispers that we were hiding behind our walls while the _humans_ fought the darkspawn..." He shrugged. "We found the Legion on the road. I still don't know that they were doing on the surface."

"The _darkspawn_ are on the surface, if you hadn't noticed." Sigrun smirked, tilting her head as she looked up at Alistair. "Something's going on with them, Warden. More than just the Blight. We've got a dozen men of the Legion ready to help you find out what."

"And sixty from Haven, half of them Warriors."

Looking between them, Alistair nodded. "We'll take everyone we can get. Your timing is perfect."

Sigrun grinned, the pair of them falling into step beside him as Alistair moved beneath the shadow of the trees.

The rest were milling there – Ser Cullen of the Templars, Shianni of the elven scouts, the nobleman Fergus Cousland. He was surprised to see Anora there as well, her gowns exchanged for a pair of leather breeches and a sword at her belt. But all of them kept well away from center of the clearing, from a sight that filled him with dread as much as wonder.

Three. Maker, there were only three. Wynne had warned that some might not be able to work the magics.

One of the griffons was a grey-flecked white, swishing its tail as Shale lowered Oghren onto its back. It gave a quiet squawk.

"Bah. Now the Elder Mage knows how it feels to be saddled with a load of stinking dwarf."

"At least my arse won't go numb, not like sittin' on a load of soddin' rock." Oghren took a swig from the flask at his belt, teetering as Shale lay a hand on his shoulder and rebalanced him upon Wynne's back.

Another of the griffons was tawny, restlessly stamping its paws and flexing its wings. As Leliana slipped past, it nipped playfully at her skirts, pecking at the leather as she squeaked and hopped aside.

Standing beside it, Nathaniel sighed. "Are you going to let me on or not?"

The griffon crouched and tilted its head, studying him. With a snap of its beak, it bounded off after Leliana.

"Great." With a glower for Alistair, Nathaniel stomped off after Anders.

It had been decided that the Grey Wardens would ride the griffons, as they had of old. And if they could land the fatal blow in the air, it would end the battle then and there. They at least had to wound the archdemon and bring it to ground, but he wondered at the cost. Would the new Wardens be prepared to pay it? He supposed they would have to be.

As for him... well, he had told them how it would end. He had been a Warden the longest, after all. It had hurt at first, to know that Duncan had kept the truth of their purpose hidden. It seemed everyone had known his destiny but him. And if they wanted his death – if that was the cost of the world – it was no more than he deserved.

But then She had come to him. Even in death, it was Her that made him see.

Zevran had said not a word when he found him pacing the tunnels, waiting restless for the sunrise, for the day that he would die. The elf merely lay the book in his hands, a tattered and familiar thing, opening it to a dog-earred page. He left him there and Alistair had sat down to read.

So strange to hear Her voice after all this time, ringing clear through the scribbled words. He devoured the diary entire, coming at last to the page that Zevran had marked, hidden amongst the blank and unfilled pages at the book's end.

_Alistair, I'm glad that you are gone. I never thought I'd say it, but there it is. Our friends might call you coward – Maker knows I have more than once – but they don't understand. We gave up our lives the moment we became Grey Wardens, whether we knew it or not. And I've surrendered to it. You dared to fight, to argue, to walk away._

I've done only what I thought would win the day. But you've done what you believe is right, moral, just. You always have. And it was only after you were gone that I saw the truth of it.

Dying is the easy part. That's what they don't understand. I could flee, could take Morrigan's deal, could wait for Orlesian reinforcements – but I'm just too tired. So tired. And soon it will be over. Our companions see bravery, but I am merely holding my breath, desperately waiting for relief. It's the only thing that I have left.

But not you. At least I can say that. I'll die tomorrow knowing that you don't have to. Live for your thirty years – more if you can. You followed something greater than I could ever understand. Keep doing that and you'll become something greater still. Maybe I can claim to have had some small hand in getting you there.

It was unsigned, a letter that he was never meant to read. He had felt almost guilty, guiltier still when the strange wetness on his fingers smudged the final words. How long he sat brooding over them, he could not say. She urged him to live while telling him to do what was right. It was a circle, a maddening bloody circle. He had followed every possibility, round and round until he heard the tunnels fill with the pre-dawn sounds of preparation.

Maker, She was still telling him what to do. And that's when he had known.

Funny how doing the right thing had found him watching the sunrise beside Loghain, waiting to send hundreds of men and women to their deaths.

Sten would lead the ground forces, a great push that would hopefully provide a distraction before they brought the griffons from beneath the trees. He spotted the Qunari now, head bent close with Loghain. He wasn't a Warden, no matter what the spirit claimed, and even if they wanted to, they couldn't risk letting a dead man strike the final blow. Let him stay on the ground. Let him lead the vanguard and claim his blighted glory. Maybe they'd be lucky and an ogre would step on him.

Oghren was settled on Wynne and, with Leliana's help, Nathaniel had nearly corralled Anders. That left the black griffon for Alistair.

He approached slowly, all too aware of the dark and pupilless eyes that tracked his every step. It was too much to hope that the beast was Jowan or one of the other mages. No, if only three had mastered the spell, she would be one of them.

Zevran stood beside her. "This is a good look for you, my dear. There are not many who can wear feathers quite so well."

Morrigan ignored him, staring up at Alistair still.

Looking away, he fished in his belt for the book and handed it back to Zevran. "…thanks."

The elf quirked a brow, keeping the rest of his features carefully still. He tucked the diary into the folds of his tunic, seeming not to notice as his hand lingered protectively over the half-hidden shape.

Morrigan gave an impatient sniff.

" You're going to drop me, aren't you? Just one little tilt and I'm a smear on the top of Fort Drakon."

"I have told It to expect no less." Shale had approached behind him, with Sten and the others. Oghren's legs bounced awkwardly to either side of Wynne's back as she trotted over. Nathaniel sat gingerly atop Anders, scowling for every twitch of the beast's wings. The rest were dispersing, seeing to the rest of their forces.

Sten gave him a deep nod. "Do not fail, Warden."

"At what? Dying? I think I can probably manage that."

The Qunari's lips twitched, but he only turned and started down the hill. Shale followed and – after a long and level look – so did Loghain.

Leliana gave Alistair a quick hug. Stopping beside Anders, she paused, letting the griffon nuzzle at her middle as she scratched its head.

Nathaniel sighed. "Please, don't encourage him." But his own eyes strayed to the queen, watching as she flinched and turned her gaze in the direction that Loghain had gone.

They were as ready as they would ever be. All that was left was him.

Moving forward carefully, Alistair swung a leg over the griffon's back. She danced awkwardly beneath him, flexing her wings indignantly as he settled his knees behind them. He could feel every feather, every muscle. They hadn't had time to fashion saddles; supposedly they could trust in the griffons themselves. Right. Trust Morrigan.

Beside them, Zevran laughed. "Ah, my dear Morrigan. You have gotten your wish, it seems."

The griffon tilted her head curiously.

"Things have ended with Alistair mounting you after all."


	20. Chapter 20

This was not the army he would have chosen. Give him half this number – men whose training he could trust, men who knew their duty, men of the _Beresaad_ – and he would take this city by noon. Give him a commander who had a plan, who had the will to see it through to its end. But we must make do with what we have. _She _had taught him that.

Striding along the disordered rows of soldiers, Sten looked to the man walking beside him. He had known him only a short time in life, had fought beside him only briefly, but he was one of the few _bas_ among them worthy of this fight. At first he had not thought it possible, this human who had once left his own men to die. But now they fought together, and for the same reason – to atone for the mistakes of the past. The man knew his duty and was not afraid to face it. This was worthy of respect.

"Teryn."

"I am no longer a Teryn. This body is no longer a Teryn."

This one claimed to be possessed of a _saarhissra_; he claimed to have died. Sten did not know what to make of it, but he would not allow his discomfort to show. As they waited for the Wardens, he had overheard the strange, tattooed dwarven girl explaining something of her kind to Leliana. The Legion of the Dead they named themselves, claiming that one must die before they can truly fight. It was freedom from distraction, from desire, from all that was forbidden by the Qun. He had to admit that he approved.

But if this was a dead man, he did not act as such. Glancing behind them, Sten sighed. "Ter... Spirit. You are being followed."

Loghain followed his gaze, his scowl faltering in surprise. The little queen was trotting after them, a borrowed blade bouncing awkwardly at her hip. Sten had watched her practicing with it beneath the trees. She had a will, if little enough skill, but she was a woman and should have remained behind. Still, the last time they had stood upon these fields, it had been a woman who led them.

Thankfully, they had reached their appointed place. He turned away, doing his best not to listen.

"...Justice."

"Anora. You should not be here."

Sten turned to take account of the van, issuing commands to this others as his eyes passed over them.

The little queen stood stiff, uncertain. But she drew herself up, daring the spirit to challenge her words. "I wanted to say goodbye."

"Goodbye...?" His hesitance made it a question. After a moment, Loghain raised a hand and patted her awkwardly on the shoulder.

"I know you're not my father."

He blinked.

"Not really. But I didn't get to say goodbye to him. So I thought I would... say goodbye to you. Just in case."

"No." Loghain's grip tightened. "I will kill this archdemon. I will end the darkspawn threat... for you." The last seemed almost a confession, a strange look of realization passing over him.

"You can't promise that."

"I... Then I will make sure he comes back. This Howe."

The words did not have their desired effect. He had clearly meant it as a comfort, but the queen stepped back with a hiss. "You needn't bother. If he never returns it will be too soon."

"I simply meant that... your husband is dead... and this body remembers..."

"Stop it. Don't _do _that." She gathered herself visibly, shaking her head with a bitter chuckle. "Cailan... They are all the same, aren't they? I should have seen it before."

Loghain took a hesitant step forward, but Anora was already backing away up the hill. She held up a warding hand, but he closed the gap between them, wrapping it round with his own. Though she stiffened, Loghain pulled her to his chest and held her there.

It was a moment before the queen relaxed, letting herself sag against him, burying her face against his marred and dented plate. Her shoulders heaved and Sten turned away, feeling suddenly indecent.

He found Leliana grinning up at him. "A beautiful moment, no?"

"I do not know what you're talking about." He loosened his blade and checked the poultices in his belt, but the bard was staring behind him still.

Sten watched from the corner of his eye as the queen pulled away. Her cheeks were dry, her expression as proud and calm as ever. "Goodbye, Justice. I wish you luck."

He did not hear Loghain's reply, did not look at him as he watched the girl go. There wasn't much time now and Leliana's knowing smirk was beginning to make him restless.

They had all gathered – the bard and the Crow and the mabari. Shale gave him a deep nod as he passed. It would be good to have the golem at his back again – the dog too, he supposed, though the thought of the long and lonely hours spent with the witch when she had taken that form still unsettled him.

The _saarebas_ would be their key advantage, as they so often were. But let them keep their magics. _This_ was the battle he craved, a victory born of sweat and blood. As he drew his sword – his _asala_– he felt the rows of men and women behind him, their excitement and their fear.

The urge took him suddenly, one that he had not felt in far too long. Raising his sword above him, Sten led the charge. Raising his sword above him, he roared.

* * *

"Nervous, dwarf?"

"Not in yer life, Howe." Oghren sat atop Wynne's back – strange as _that_was – and tried not to let the other Warden sense his restlessness. He'd always wanted to try one of them ponies the humans were always going on about, but if they were anything like this... He grabbed a fistful of feathers to keep himself from slipping to one side, almost losing his balance entirely as Wynne squawked. "Shaddup, you. Just don't bloody drop me."

The griffon gave an indignant sniff.

Anders seemed to share his restlessness, shifting and twitching beneath Howe. With a sigh, the man gave the griffon's neck an idle pat.

Oghren raised a brow.

Remembering himself, Nathaniel smirked. "How does it feel? The thought of going up into that great, big sky?"

"Bought as nice as my axe burying itself in yer knee. See how you like ridin' with a bad leg."

"She won't drop you." His voice softened, suddenly serious. "Wynne knows what she's doing." He gave Anders a gentle prod with his boot. "More than I can say for some."

Anders flicked his tail and shook his head.

Oghren grinned, nodding to where Alistair sat alone across the clearing atop the black griffon. "That Morrigan's the one I'd worry about. Has a bit o' the wild in her, if ya know what I mean. Like to buck a man right off, you can tell."

Apparently Howe didn't get the joke; he simply stared expressionless in their direction.

"I heard a rumor, y'know. 'Bout another way she found to end the Blight. Er somethin'... I didn't pay much attention to the details. But seems you can save the world by ruttin'!" He teetered with laughter. "Too bad, she didn't ask ol' Oghren. We'da sent that archdemon runnin'!"

Wiping the tears from eyes, he saw that Howe hadn't even cracked a smile. Stone, you'd think they were all about to ride to their deaths. Oghren paused. It was a sobering thought. He pulled the flask from his belt with half a mind to offer some to Howe but, thinking better of it, he tilted back his head and emptied it in one, long pull.

They were down to the sour Chantry wine that Wynne had uncovered. Maybe she'd meant to use it for healing, maybe not, but he'd seen the way that Alistair had been eyeing it. Oghren belched. If they archdemon didn't kill him, keeping that boy sober might well do it.

But Alistair was coming toward them now, away from the vantage that had let him look out across the field. Coming to stand beside them, he hung his head. "They're through the gate."

Oghren wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. "'Bout damn time."

"Are you sure you're ready for this?" Alistair looked up at him, something almost like a smile twisting his lips. "I mean, all that _sky_..."

"Aw, right. Make fun of the dwarf. Everybody have a good laugh."

He did smile then and Oghren had to chuckle with him.

"An' what about you, Commander? Not gonna make a speech?"

Again, Alistair seemed to sag. But realizing that he was leaning against Morrigan, he straightened, shifted, glanced round the clearing and ended up staring at his hands. "Would it matter if I did?"

"Maybe. Maybe not."

"I don't suppose you have any wine left?"

"Nope."

Alistair sighed. "Right. Well... let's go. And... try not to fall off."

"Very inspirational," Howe mumbled.

Oghren elbowed him. "Speak for yerself."

The growl died on his lips as Wynne's claws slid in the earth, her tail streaming out behind them as she leapt toward the treeline. Fast, too fast, but her paws beat at the ground beneath them, tearing through the brush, pounding away across the dying grasses. There was a rhythm to it, his balance shifting with each stride. Maybe this wasn't so bad.

When her wings flared out to either side of him, Oghren shrieked. He would have looked round to see if Alistair or Howe had seen, but the world had suddenly gone dark. It was only when his breakfast came lurching up into his beard that he realized his eyes were closed.

A handful of feathers had come away in his hands, but he only tightened his grip. There was something below them, tiny buildings, tinier dots scurrying in all directions. At first he couldn't make sense of it, couldn't see anything beyond the darkness behind his eyes. But as Wynne climbed higher, he forced himself to look, forced himself to see.

Those big ones there were ogres. He found himself squinting at the others, but everything was too small, too damn confused. Whoever was down there, they were on their own. Fighting had consumed the market district, had broken through into the Alienage. They were pushing through.

The cry on his lips was a bit less strangled now; he could see Alistair and Morrigan ahead, Howe and Anders off to his right. Wynne banked and for a moment everything went dark, but he soon noticed Morrigan and Anders doing the same. The fighting was down there, but up here they were alone.

"Where's the bloody archdemon?" The others couldn't hear him, but had come to the same realization.

Oghren pulled his axe from his back and rested it across his lap. They were circling the tower at the city's center, a tempting target for the darkspawn archers positioned there, a tempting snack for anything bigger. A volley from the tower fell short, but Wynne swung wide, bringing them closer to Fort Drakon. It looked no prettier than he remembered. They'd destroyed most of it in the last battle, but the rubble seemed different now, glittering as it caught the rising sun.

Oh, sod. "It's a nest. It's a soddin' nest!"

Maybe Wynne understood him. She rolled away, corkscrewing back toward the tower and his breakfast came surging back again. Up was down and down was up; he prayed to the ancestors, cursed them, cried for his mother and – of all things – Branka.

And when the world righted itself, the sky erupted into blackened flame.

His breeches were warm. Stone, somebody had pissed in them.

The archdemon took to the air on massive, beating wings, turning the very wind against them. Wynne compensated, diving low and he could see Morrigan and Anders closing in. The griffons had gotten them here; now it was their turn.

Still he had his axe to hand and it was only dimly that he recalled the crossbow Alistair had given him. Right, the axe was bloody useless up here. He gave the handle a final squeeze, pinning it with his knee as he slipped the bow from his back and fitted a bolt.

Howe, too, had unslug his bow and was fitting the arrows two at a time. Showoff.

Oghren fired with a roar and was already pulling a new bolt from his quiver by the time he saw the first one miss. Useless. Alistair seemed to be having less luck. As he watched, the boy overshot and lost his bow altogether. He drew his sword as it fell and Morrigan darted close.

Right. The wings. Aim for the bloody wings.

Anders dove past them, bringing Howe in close before soaring away again. Still Nathaniel was shooting, but he wasn't wasting arrows. Pinpoints of light seemed to shine through the archdemon's left wing, tiny tears where the arrows had found their mark. And with enough tears...

"Left, woman. Go left. Bring me in close."

Wynne was quick to obey, maybe quicker than he would have liked. Luckily, his breakfast seemed to be already gone.

Oghren fitted another bolt, missed again. With a growl, he tossed the bow away and took up his axe. "Sod it. Closer, c'mon. Closer!"

Alistair and Morrigan swooped close, Alistair's sword flicking out to just catch a small bit of wing. The archdemon growled.

"Now _that's _what I'm talkin' about!" Oghren readied his own swing, but Anders burst from beneath them. Wynne had no choice but to bank high and roll away. "What in the—?"

Two more arrows Nathaniel loosed and this time the archdemon roared with pain. It twisted suddenly, one claw slashing out blindly. Oghren saw it connect, heard Anders' own howl. It was half a roar and half a squeal – strangely human too. It was all Oghren could do to hold on, watching as Anders and Howe careened toward the roof of Fort Drakon.

He screamed with them, but it died in his throat. It was now or never. Sod it all.

He leapt with a roar, his axe swinging out before him. When it buried itself in the muscle of the wing, the jolt nearly tore his arms off. But he held fast, vaguely realizing that he'd struck home, that the archdemon was circling, limping toward the roof. Oghren laughed, letting himself be carried along with it. He'd ridden a griffon, after all. How bad could a dragon be?

* * *

When the griffons came soaring overhead, he could not help but stop to watch. Zevran leapt forward, landing in a crouch as his daggers flashed out to either side, taking a pair of genlocks in the throat and belly. He straightened slowly, flicking away the blood and letting his eyes follow the progress of the three tiny figures, so far above.

He caught Leliana watching as well. They shared a wry smile across the battlefield before the tide swept them up again. She would make a song of it, surely. And why not? But he had heard this song before, knew too well how it ended.

Whirling aside, his elbow took a hurlock beneath the chin, staggering it as his other hand thrust a blade through its middle. The Alienage was theirs, it seemed. A contingent of dwarves had already breached the inner gate, sending it crashing down with a rumbling explosion as they made their way deeper into the city. Dwarves were everywhere he looked, in fact, defending the great and blackened tree at the Alienage's center, rousting those darkspawn who had nested in the poor and crumbling houses. Zevran had to laugh. This was Her doing, dead or no. She had made strange bedfellows of them all.

He followed the surge through the gate and into the palace courtyard. Sten stood tall atop the steps, rallying them still and Loghain led his own press round the walls. Funny, how the slightest taste of victory, of advantage, could invigorate even the most pathetic force. He had walked amongst them, had felt the restless stirring in their ranks as they waited on the hills. It was fear that he had tasted, though it had taken him a moment to realize it. But fear was like anything else, no different than the pinch of deathroot that he placed beneath his tongue each morning. Resistance was merely a matter of practice.

And now they were swept up in something greater. Desperation, he would have called it, but even that felt a vague and foreign thing. He could still recall his last visit to this courtyard, his eagerness, the sight of _Her_ plunging ahead into the fray, the sound of Her maddened laughter. It had still been a game then, and he had resolved to play it by Her side. He had not seen – had not _allowed_ himself to see – the reckless abandon painted there so clearly.

They had taken the yard now and he found himself laughing again. Perhaps he understood what it was that she had felt.

Beyond the next gate, Loghain stood watching the skies. The archdemon had appeared at last. Zevran stood with him, watching as it twisted and breathed its shadowed fire, watching as those three tiny blurs – suddenly so much smaller than they had at first seemed – darted and dodged away.

"Come," was all the dead man said.

Zevran should have followed, should have left the Wardens to their work, but it was better than looking to the fortress that loomed ahead. So small they were. What hope did they have of winning? Did any of them? But he had not come here to win.

When the arrow thudded into his chest, he spun with the force of it, landing hard on his back. But he did not feel it, not truly. Suddenly his breath was simply gone. His eyes were still on the battle raging above, on the crumbling battlements that he remembered all too well.

Is this what She had seen, lying in the shadow of Fort Drakon? Is this where She had died?

He rasped a chuckle but found that breath eluded him. Poetic, yes? And is that not what he had wanted?

Zevran watched with dazed detachment as the archdemon lashed out, sending one of the griffons reeling. He watched as it circled away, landing clumsy on the roof above. The others dove near, seemed to strike a wound of their own and it was the archdemon's turn to howl. It jolted him back to something like waking.

His fingers curled round the arrow's shaft, trembling to find it still there, standing stiff and true. For Rinna he had come to Ferelden, to face his death at the hands of the mighty Grey Wardens. But for Her... for _Her _he had sworn no less than to storm the gates of the Dark City itself. And, though she was gone, he knew no darker city than this.

A life for a life, yes? It was the only noble principle he'd ever had.

Chuckling his last, Zevran's hand curled round the shaft. Chuckling, Zevran Arainai prepared to die.

He gave the arrow a sharp twist, but found that it would not turn. He tried again, pressing down, but felt only a vague pressure against his chest. Looking to his fingers, he blinked in surprise. No blood.

Struggling up onto his elbows, he tried to breathe, found that he could. It was only a dull ache, as one has when the wind is knocked out of them. Head spinning, he prodded at the wound, gasping in surprise.

The Warden. She would not leave him alone, it seemed.

Laughing truly now, he ripped the front of his leathers, pulling free the small and battered book. The arrow had pierced it through, making a ruin of those well-read pages. Chance – and some rather sturdy leather binding – were all that had kept him from being skewered along with it.

Zevran blinked, sitting up to survey the courtyard. Save for the dead and dying, he was alone. Even the skies above were quiet. The battle had passed him by and no one had stopped to mourn his passing. And truly, who would?

He looked again to the book in his hands. Such a tiny thing, but it did not deserve such an end. Wrenching the arrow free, he tossed it aside and smoothed the pages. Destroyed. Useless. Perhaps it is time to leave it behind. He could practically head Leliana's voice behind the words.

Pushing stiffly to his feet, he found a likely bit of rubble. It would be in the right spot, or near enough. Lifting a fallen stone he tucked the book beneath and stepped back to admire his work. A strange vigil, to be sure. It seemed to be a day for metaphor and poetry. Perhaps he had a future as a bard, himself.

But first... There was blood to be spilled, fiends to be vanquished, a giant dragon to be slain. That last he would have preferred to avoid, but seeing as how he was in the neighborhood... With a smirk, Zevran darted up the steps and into the mouth of Fort Drakon.

* * *

When she had seen Anders fall, she had screamed. She hadn't been able to help it. Sten had been by her side, though, had pointed out the griffon's clumsy descent toward the roof. Leliana did not remember much of their battle through the halls of the fort; it seemed she had been holding her breath until the moment they broke through into the sun.

It almost seemed strange that the sun should shine here, but it had risen as they fought their way through the city, leaving the dark things no place to hide. This was a place of warmth, of light, of hope. Her eyes had scanned the rooftop, forgetting all of it for those few breathless moments.

But Anders had been there, lying amongst the rubble with Wynne at his side. Both were naked, bruised and human. There was a great gash across Anders' back but it was already knitting beneath Wynne's hands. It wasn't until she said that he would be alright, until he smiled up at her, that Leliana had felt truly warm.

There was no time for more than a thankful nod, a whispered prayer to the Maker. Darkspawn were still storming through the doors, her arrows taking them two at a time. She spotted Morrigan, human again, being helped to her feet by Nathaniel Howe. She shoved him away as Leliana watched, summoning a gout of flame to engulf the nearest genlock. Of Alistair there was no sign.

Sten and Loghain burst through the doors, taking the darkspawn in the rear. Maker, she had gotten ahead of them. Had she truly made her way through those halls alone? Again, she said a silent prayer of thanks.

But they weren't alone. Humans, elves, dwarves – all had made it to the rooftop. Some of the elves had already taken up position, using the rubble as cover as they unleashed volley after volley at the archdemon.

The archdemon. She saw it there at the dragon's feet, a tiny and crumpled figure, his long red beard splayed across the stones. But there was another there then, holding his shield above his head to deflect a gout of black flame as he dragged the dwarf out of harm's way. Leliana marked their progress, feathering the darkspawn that blocked her way with arrows as she followed them.

Alistair had taken cover behind a fallen column, propping Oghren against it. Leliana crouched beside them. "Is he...?"

Oghren groaned. "_Ow_."

"Maker's breath!" Alistair wrapped his arms round the dwarf, causing him to curse and wince with pain. "Oh... sorry. But that was... that was amazing!"

"Eh?"

Leliana lay a hand on his knee. "Are you alright?"

"Wouldn't say no to a drink."

Alistair chuckled, but stone shifted beneath them as the archdemon roared. Another figure crashed into the column and Alistair turned to find himself face to face with Loghain.

"Come, Warden. We should end this quickly."

Rocking back on his heels, Alistair slowly raised his eyes to the archdemon. For one small moment, it seemed as though he had forgotten his purpose here. He had let himself feel relief, the thrill of victory, but it was not yet complete. Leliana wanted to reach out to him, but his gaze was distant, gone somewhere that she could not follow.

After a long moment, he sighed. "I will. I'll end it. You stay here."

"No."

Alistair blinked at that. "This is a job for a Grey Warden. Besides, the dead can't die."

"This body _did_ die. _Fighting_ as a Grey Warden."

"Yeah, until you brought him back." He made as if to rise, but Loghain – Justice – was quicker, his steps long and proud as he stepped through the rubble.

"No!" Alistair darted after him, grabbing his elbow to spin him round.

Another skittering of stones heralded Zevran's arrival and Leliana leapt in surprise. The elf crouched easy beside her, sharing a nod with Oghren, but his eyes were locked to the argument now raging before them. As she watched, his face went strangely pale.

Even Oghren twisted round to watch. "Arguin' over who gets to die. Heh. I should be out there."

"You have done enough." Leliana held him down.

But Zevran began creeping slowly forward. With a look of warning for Oghren, Leliana followed after. If they failed, he would get his chance. She half-wondered where Anders and Nathaniel were, but the further the better. She flushed at the selfishness of the thought.

"...I can't let you do it!" Alistair had not released his hold on Loghain's arm.

"You do not have a choice. You cannot do it alone."

"Then just – Maker, I don't believe I'm saying this – _help me_."

Loghain stepped close. "You are asking for my help?"

Alistair snorted, shaking his head. "Maker, look at me. I need _everyone's_help. I can't do this alone, but neither can you."

"We need each other."

"Yes, yes, fine. It's all very touching. But I'll..." He swallowed hard. "I'll be the one."

"If that it your wish."

"It is." Of all things, Alistair began to laugh. "It is."

Beside Leliana, Zevran cursed beneath his breath. "This is not the time for talk." She blinked at him, but he only shook his head with a rueful smile. "Trust me."

"Are you alright?"

"No more than you, let us say. And a good deal better than our dear Alistair." But as she watched, his eyes went wide, looking to something beyond her. Zevran burst to his feet, leaping the crumbling stones with a strangled cry. "Loghain!"

Too late she turned, too late she saw. Alistair and Loghain's argument had not gone unnoticed. It had put Loghain's back to the archdemon, had given it time to swoop behind and wrap him in its thick and piercing claws. High it lifted him as Alistair chased after, one idle toss flicking Loghain into its snapping jaws.

She could see him struggling still, groaning for the teeth clumped round his middle. Still his sword was to hand, held aloft in trembling arms.

"Justice!"

Alistair screamed as the specter of Loghain leveled the blade, driving it into the archdemon's eye with all the force left to him. The creature howled, flinging him aside, but not before the blade landed ringing at Alistair's feet.

He stared at it for a long moment. The whisper beneath his breath might have been a final plea. But then he was scooping up the sword, running headlong across the rooftop, closing the gap as the blinded dragon thrashed. Alistair crashed hard onto his knees, letting the momentum bear him forward, raising the sword above him to slice the archdemon from neck to belly. As it collapsed, he rolled free, staggering to his feet.

"Alistair!"

Before Leliana could move to stop him, he turned the blade before him, plunging it down into the archdemon's skull.

The force of it threw her backward, the light tearing cross the sky, blinding all the world. She imagined that she heard a whisper, an answer to a question unasked, a thread of blue-tinged shadow slipping through the white. She imagined she saw Alistair, calm and safe at its center as the skies flared and boiled. But then she could see no more.

When the light faded, the archdemon was dead, that much was clear. Leliana was one of the first to rush forward, stumbling half-blind, tripping on stone and blood and Maker knew what else. But then Alistair was before her, standing beside the lifeless beast, staring down almost uncomprehending as the sword slipped from his fingers.

"Alistair!" She wanted to throw her arms around him, but as he turned she stopped short. "You're not..."

"I'm fine, I... Maker's breath, I'm... alive." He sounded surprised.

The others surrounded them now. Leliana found Anders being supported between Nathaniel and Wynne. With a nod for the old mage, she took her place beneath his arm, laying a quick kiss on his brow. But her eyes strayed back to Alistair.

He put a hand to his head, wincing in wondering pain as he made his way to the roof's edge, looking out across the place where She had fallen. Zevran moved hesitantly to his side.

When finally Alistair spoke, it was as if to himself, the whisper soft and strange. "It is a rare thing for a man to die twice. Is it enough? Are you now sated?" After a moment, he chuckled and shook his head. "No. I thought not."

"Alistair?" Leliana's eyes narrowed as they darted to Morrigan. "How...?"

But the witch looked as surprised as she. "This is powerful magic, but it is not mine."

"I asked for help. Isn't that what you wanted?" The familiar petulance in his tone was almost a relief, but he turned with a heavy sigh, raising his eyes from beneath lowered brows. They were pupiless white, tendrils of pale fire licking toward his temples.

Beside her, Leliana heard Anders mutter, "Uh oh."

The flame seemed to snake up his arms, a halo of blue-tinged shadow that seemed to follow his every movement. Alistair turned back to the edge, looking out across the city. Below them, the darkspwan were scattering but still Denerim burned. "It is... not right. But Loghain is dead. Justice... the only justice I ever wanted... is done." Again, his voice grew soft. Alistair raised a hand, watching the strange flame flare and flicker between his fingers. "Or perhaps it is just beginning."


End file.
